


Harder Than Steel and Thrice as Cruel

by shmoopie313



Series: Then There Was You [2]
Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Bondage, Case Fic, Crossover, F/M, M/M, PTSD John, Romance, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shmoopie313/pseuds/shmoopie313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little over a year has passed since the epilogue of Then There Was You. Members of the D'Angeline nobility are being kidnapped and murdered and Sherlock and John are called on to solve the case. It should be just another day of detective work, but before they are done their love and loyalty and faith will be tested in ways they never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Sherlock (BBC) fic set in the world of Jacqueline Carey's Kushiel books. It is also the second in a series, and I highly recommend reading the first piece or this one won't make much sense.
> 
> As with the last one, there are some Kushiel notes below for those of you who haven't read the books. 
> 
> Against my better judgement, this chapter has not been beta'd because I am a horrible, impatient person and want to post it. Any errors are 100% mine. Also, I can't make any promises about my speed of posting new chapters. I will try to not be too terribly slow if you will try to be patient with me :)
> 
> Kushiel Notes:  
> The Somervilles are the ruling nobles of L'Agnace, the region in Terre D'Ange that surrounds the City of Elua. Like every ruling noble line, an angel's blood runs in their veins (Anael). The region is primarily farms and orchards, and the Somerville family orchards are renowned through the country for their apples and ciders. Just to the south of L'Agnace is Eisande. Eisande is known to be welcoming of travelers thanks to its large population of Tsingani (Romani/Gypsies). Marsilikos is a major port city at its southern edge. Azzale is a region in the north and home to another much smaller port town. Alba is Great Britain during the time of the Celts; its ruler is the Cruarch. And finally, Tiberium is a city-state of Caerdicca Unitas, i.e. medieval Rome.
> 
> Finally, EEEP! I am so excited about this story! I hope you enjoy it too :)

_“Let the warriors clamor after gods of blood and thunder; Love is hard, harder than steel and thrice as cruel. It is inexorable as the tides, and life and death alike follow in its wake.” ~ Kushiel’s Chosen_

 

Sebastian de Somerville dusts himself off and stands as tall as his eleven-year-old frame will allow, but it’s hopeless. James has two years on him in age, and he’d gone through a growth spurt recently that gave him a considerable advantage in sparring. Never one to back down from a challenge, though, Sebby wipes a hand across his face and picks up his practice sword from the ground. He stands light on his feet, waiting for his friend to come at him again. The fallow field around them lays quiet. James smirks at him and raises his own sword.

“Are you certain? I wasn’t even breathing hard that time.”

“You surprised me, that’s all. About time you made this an actual competition.”

“Let’s see if you’re still saying that when you’re on the ground again, little lord.”

Sebby laughs at the taunt and moves in to attack, this time more wary of James’ reach. For several minutes dull steel clanks together as swords meet and loose soil stirs into the air around quickly moving feet. It ends with James disarmed and on his back, but it could have easily ended the other way around. Sebby puts out a hand to help James up, which earns him a scowl as he gets to his feet. James grabs his sword and they start again.

The late summer sun warms the field as the boys go round after round. Sebby was first handed a wooden short-sword by his father’s master-at-arms when he was barely more than a toddler, and it shows in the developing deftness of his movements. James is not as good, but he is still impressive given that he has had no formal training. When they finally sheath their swords, they are both breathing hard and ignoring small injuries.     

“Not bad, peasant.” Sebby nudges James’ side with his shoulder as they walk towards the low stone wall separating the Somerville orchards from the land worked by James’ uncle. “You’re getting better.”

“Yeah, maybe. Chess tomorrow? You almost won last time.”

“I’m still regretting teaching you that game. I can’t tomorrow, though. Mother’s taking me to hear the King’s Poet, remember?”

“Right. The Palace tea. That sounds _so_ exciting.” Sarcasm drips from his last words.

“It does, doesn’t it? But I have to go. Here, I brought you these. I think they are the ones you asked for?” Sebby picks up his satchel from the wall and pulls out three books wrapped together with twine. James’ face lights up when he gives them to him. He caresses the books as he reads the lettering on their spines.

“Yes. Thank you. I can have them back to you in a few days.”

“There is no reason to hurry. Father won’t miss them. Why do you like reading history books anyway? They’re so dull.”

James takes a moment to think before responding, and when he does it is with uncharacteristic gravity. “Because I want my name to be written in one someday.”

Sebby laughs. “That is one I will have to read. The rise of the great James Moriarty.” He slings the strap of his satchel over one shoulder and smiles at his friend. “So don’t be boring.”

“Of course not, my lord.” James bows, and Sebby rolls his eyes. They are both smiling as they walk opposite directions towards home.       

~ ~ ~

John watches the Alban coastline fall away as their ship’s crew opens sails to the winds of the Straights. These last weeks had been interesting in ways that John would rather not think about, and he is glad to be going home. Was it really only a month ago that the Cruarch’s messenger had arrived at Baker Street? The attempted political coup at the surface of it all, the case Sherlock was meant to solve, was merely a stepping stone. Almost as soon as they set foot on Alban soil, they fell into a world of monstrous wolves, primal magic, angry spirits, and too many truths. Sherlock was fascinated and solved the case with his usual veracity. John slept fitfully, with his blades close at hand.

As they sail towards home and its loving but distant gods, John tries to let go of Alba even though he knows it will be impossible. It has changed them, put them on a path neither expected. There is the confession heard at the end of it all, the name that is now a puzzle Sherlock must solve. ‘ _What's Moriarty?’ ‘I have absolutely no idea.’_ He will not give up until he knows, he never does.And then, for John, there are the words of an old healer that are burned into his mind no matter how much he would like to forget them. John whispers a prayer to Elua because he does not know what else to do, but Alba’s ancient dieties do not seem to care if the mortal lives in which they meddle belong to gods of another land.

~ ~ ~

“A Casseline? Why do you need a Casseline? You’re already a better swordsman than half of your father’s guard.” James takes the last bite of his apple and tosses the core into the far end of their river swimming hole. Sebby sits up next to him on the rock, grabbing the stolen bottle of cider that sits between them and taking a drink.

“Because I’m spending so much time in the Palace. I could be considered leverage to use against the royal family, and I am only thirteen. Brother Watson is a far better swordsman than all of our guard, the Queen’s too. I think Father has always wanted to have one in the family anyway, but felt it would be too fashionable or highbrow or something. So now that it’s been suggested, he is thrilled to hire one.”

James takes the bottle and sips from it, staring straight ahead as he speaks. “It is highbrow. It doesn’t fit you.”

“You’re just mad at me for not being around lately.”

 “I am. But that’s not relevant. Are you going to come see me with your gray shadow in tow? Do you think he will let you? I am the orphaned nephew of a farmer. I am nothing. What place do I have in the life of a royal favorite?” 

“James, I have to.” James can feel Sebby’s eyes on him, identify without looking the expression on his face. Earnest, apologetic, scared. It makes him warm and anxious all at once, and he needs to move before he does something he will regret. He gets to his feet and walks to the rock’s edge a few feet above the lazy water, stripping away his shirt and boots as he does.

“You’re a duke’s son, you have a duty, et cetera, et cetera. I know.” He turns and looks back towards Sebastian. “Just, don’t lose yourself, Seb. Don’t forget this.” He motions to the world around them, and looks into bright blue eyes for a long moment, longer than he should. “Don’t forget me.” Sebby blushes and looks away.  

James turns and dives into the cold, deep water, letting it close in around him. His heart is pounding in his chest, and it feels like the water on his skin is the only thing holding him together. _Stop being an idiot, James. Just stop. He is your_ lord _for Elua’s sake!_ He floats near the river bottom trying to calm down until his lungs are burning for air. When he swims to the surface, Sebby is sitting on the edge of their rock watching for him. His bare feet are swinging above the water and his expression is uncertain.  

_Elua, forgive me. I have to try._

“Are you going to jump in or do I have to pull you?”

Sebby smiles, uncertainty fading. He pushes himself off the ledge and splashes into the water. He surfaces an arm’s length from James, and catches James’ gaze with his own before speaking. “You are far more than nothing. I could never forget you.”

It is now James’ turn to blush, but he doesn’t look away.

~ ~ ~

Sherlock watches the green fields of Azzale move by through the carriage window. Now that he is back in Terre D’Ange, far from the case and the strange shores of Alba, his body is demanding payment for days of neglect. His eyes drift close and his mind wanders from one thing to another, still trying to process information. White seaside cliffs and John’s face in the moonlight. Otherworldly howls in the night. Dark woods, magic, fearful wonder.  An entire world of new things to study.

He mumbles in his sleep and a familiar hand touches his arm lightly. “Come here, love. You’ll sleep better if you’re comfortable.”

Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes as he leans towards the sound. _John._ He curls around John’s torso, slinging an arm over his stomach and resting his head on his shoulder. He says something that might have been “love you” if it were intelligible. Fingers slide into his hair, lips press to his brow.

“Sleep, Sherlock. I love you too.”

John smells of leather and sea salt and sweat. Sherlock breathes in deeply and finally relaxes. Fingers run through his curls until his breathing grows even. His dreams are vivid and wild and dark, and weaving through each are whispers that tease and tempt and lure him forward.

~ ~ ~

James sits against the trunk of an apple tree, one leg sprawled out in front of him, the other bent in close to his chest. He mindlessly fidgets with blades of grass and leans his head back onto the tree bark. He is early, but he couldn’t bear being in his uncle’s house any longer this morning. His eighteenth name day came and went last week, unnoted except for the increased pressure for him to find somewhere else to be. When his parents died, he was just a babe and his mother’s sister had taken him in out of obligation, but there was no love lost through the years and now that he is a man the obligation has ended.  He is no longer welcome here. He has very little knowledge of where else to go, though. He hopes Sebastian, with his much larger view of the world, will have some ideas.

Sebastian. Could he have a future there? They had been dancing at the edges of each other’s affection for years now, ever since that day at the river. Sebby is only ever here in the summer now, leaving for the city’s winter social season right after the first harvest, but his Casseline allowed him freedom within the boundaries of Somerville’s estates, and they were already quite good at finding reasons to see each other. They were soon finding innocent reasons to touch each other as well - sparring became more violent, chess became gentle. They learned subtlety in speech organically, so often having two conversations at once. It was the only way they could ever talk about it, even after the conversation changed. After urgent kisses were stolen around corners and hedgerows. After hands grasped for skin beneath clothing. After bodies pressed into each other in root cellars and tool sheds. A new need, a _hunger_ was lighting up in each of them, but they were both too scared of what it meant to let it be serious. It was always playing, just practicing, experimenting, never real lust, never real love.     

Until an afternoon in a barn loft spent learning what it means to be intimate, to be vulnerable. To be laid bare in front of someone in every way that matters. Beneath the trappings of social class and economic fortune, they are both D’Angeline. James may not have the blood of Anael in his veins as Sebby does, but he is no less one of Elua’s children. They are each tasked to love without regard for crowns or thrones.

Surely _that_ is what it means to love.          

And if it is, he has to try to keep it.

 That afternoon was eight months ago. It was the last day of summer and the last time he saw Sebby. They were both still glowing and awestruck and lost in each other when he left. What will they be now that he is back?           

Motion to his right catches his attention, and he sees Sebastian walking down the row of trees towards him. He smiles widely as he gets up to go meet him. Sebby has passed him in height over the winter, and filled out as well, broad muscles replacing most of childhood’s softer shapes. He is dressed in simple brown trousers, a dark red tunic shirt, and leather boots. His straight, perpetually messy blonde locks have grown out a bit, now falling just over his brow in the front. He walks with the surety of a grown man, and it is not until they are in front of one another that James sees hesitation in his eyes. He looks worried.  

“Welcome home, my lord.”

Sebby’s smile is small and shy. “I’m sorry I never wrote you. The time went by so quickly, and I just never got the chance.”

“I assumed as much. But you’re here now, so it’s all right.” James reaches for him, brushing fingers across his cheek and stepping closer. “I missed you.” Sebby closes his eyes, nudging his head ever so slightly into James’ hand. James’ breath quickens, his heart pounds in his chest. _Please, Elua, let me keep this._

They stand this way, just breathing, for a moment. Then Sebby pulls away, opening his eyes to look at James. He is still anxious. “I missed you too.”

 James holds his gaze, his brow crinkling in concern. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Sebby’s eyes dart between his for a moment and look away. “John and I rode in a day early because there are things you should know, and I need you to hear them from me first.”         

“What things?”

“That day in the barn-” Sebby stops and starts again. “You and I were always just playing at love, weren’t we? But that day suddenly we weren’t, and I should have told you. Perhaps you should have known all along, but I never thought it would matter. I never dreamt that I could be someone you would want. Afterwards, I was selfish, and I am so sorry, James. I wanted to hold on to that day, to remember it as the perfect, beautiful thing that it was. So I just left. I ran away to the city instead of telling you the truth.”

“Seb, whatever it is-” A pause. A heartbeat. _I have to try._ “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I love you.”

“And I love her.” He looks at James as he speaks, his voice quiet, defeated. “Sybille de la Courcel. I love you too, you must know that, but she has the lion’s share of my heart and she always will.”

James lets out the breath he is holding in a huff of a laugh. “We are D’Angeline, Sebby. ‘Love as thou wilt.’ If I must share your heart with a princess, I will take the lesser half and be eternally grateful that I was allowed so much.”

Sebby’s brilliantly blue eyes brim with tears and he turns away. “You don’t understand. Dalliances outside of a royal marriage are not something that is done.”

“Marriage? That is your news then. You are bretrothed.” James’ stomach clenches, his heart sinks like a stone.

 “As of last week, yes. If she were anyone else, it would make no difference. But she is the Dauphine, so I can’t have both of you.”

“And you choose her.”

Sebby looks at him for a long moment, and James wonders what he sees. What does a man look like when his heart is breaking? When he speaks, Sebby’s voice is hardly more than a whisper. “Yes.”

James fights back the tears threatening behind his eyes, determined to not let Sebastian see what this will do to him. “Then I will take my leave.”

“You don’t have to go. You are my oldest friend, James. Let us find that again, at least.”

“I can’t, Seb. I would be content with a pittance of your heart, I would share you with a dozen others and count myself blessed. But you ask me to stop loving you, to stand by one day as you wed and not cry from the rooftops that you are mine too.” He swallows back the rage and overwhelming grief rising in his chest, takes a breath to calm himself. “I can’t do that, I am not that strong. I’m sorry.” One last glance - is it possible to memorize every nuance of a face in a moment? “Farewell, Your Highness.”

He turns and walks away as calmly as he can. Sebastian calls for him, his name filled with anguish and loss, but he can’t turn around. If he turns around he will stay and live forever in the shadow of a love that cannot exist, the peasant pleading in vain for the heart of a king. He makes it to his uncle’s hay field before collapsing to the ground, a wailing cry clawing up from his center. He screams at the sky until his lungs and throat are raw, but it does not stop the gaping, gnawing nothing in his stomach from reaching his lungs and stealing his breath. He clutches at his heart, curls up on his side in the tall grass, and lets the tears come.

Later, still lying in the grass, he makes a decision. He was naïve to believe Elua cared for all D’Angelines the same. Crowns and thrones apparently do matter, quite a lot. So he will leave. It doesn’t matter where he goes as long as the gods of Terre D’Ange and their false promises of love do not follow.

He walks home to gather his few things, leaving the last books he borrowed from Sebby on his bed with a note for someone to return them. Without looking back, he walks out to the road and turns south. The Somerville estates are close enough to Eisande that he easily finds a ride from a passing cart. At the end of the next day, he walks the docks of Marsilikos looking for a ship that will accept an unskilled deckhand as payment for passage to wherever it is already going. Just when he is about to give up, a small merchant vessel takes him on for their voyage to Tiberium. As the ship sails out from the harbor at sunrise, he stands at the stern watching Terre D’Ange fall away. He lets his mind wander through all of his memories of Sebastian, of home, his heart aching in his chest. He caresses each moment before letting them go on the wind. If Tiberium is to make him a new man, it must start now.

_Goodbye, Sebby._

~ ~ ~

John looks out the window of their bedroom, watching clouds move across the moon in the sliver of sky he can see from the bed. Sherlock sleeps soundly next to him and most likely will for several hours yet. John envies him. Being home is remarkably comforting, but he has only been able to sleep for a couple of hours. Inevitably, the healer’s words filter into his dreams to worry him awake. If not her words, it is her eyes glazing over, or firelight shifting the shadows on her wrinkled face, or the way her voice filled his skull as she spoke, powerful and feeble all at once.

He rolls over, turning away from the window, and curls himself around Sherlock, laying his head on Sherlock’s chest. He closes his eyes and focuses on the fact that they are home and safe and in each other’s arms. The steady cadence of Sherlock’s heart lulls him eventually towards sleep, but the last words in his mind before he lets go are hers.

_Be vigilant, warrior. His feet are on a path you cannot follow, but if you are not there when he reaches the end of it, he will surely fall._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kushiel notes are at the end to avoid spoilers. 
> 
> Many thanks to Fascinated for beta-ing! 
> 
> I look forward to hearing what you think :)

Three weeks pass in relative quiet. There are afternoons with tea and biscuits, early morning experiments, two simple cases, evenings of violin music, nights filled with John and occasionally Molly. Life at Baker Street goes on as it always has, and while part of Sherlock’s mind is still pondering the mystery of Moriarty, rolling the name about and examining it from every angle, trying to fit it against other cases like a puzzle piece, he’s beginning to accept that he simply needs more information and there is little he can do about it but wait. Today he is waiting by reading one of the few books he could find on Alban history. The Cruithne people do not value the written word, relying instead on Ollamhs to pass their rich culture and history orally from one generation to the next, but thankfully a handful of scholars have recorded what they learned while visiting with or living among them. Should the Cruarch need Sherlock’s skills again, he plans to be much more knowledgeable of the world around him.

He feels John’s hand on his shoulder and looks up from his work. John smiles sleepily at him in response, but he looks more rested than he has been in weeks. Sherlock doesn’t know what has been worrying him – John insists there is nothing wrong at all – but he is glad to see that it seems to be getting better. As John reaches to pull out a chair at the table, Sherlock catches a glimpse of a thin pink line running up his forearm, just to the side of the vein. Sherlock knows it follows the vein up to the inside of his elbow where it curls delicately into sensitive skin. Memories of John screaming as he made it two nights ago flash into his mind and make him flush with desire.

"How’s the book?”

Sherlock clears his throat and glances down to remind himself what he’d been reading. “Actually rather interesting. This chapter is an account of a Lord Teirnan’s coronation, originally written by a priest of Naamah that was in attendance.”

“Still researching Alba, then?”

_Why does that make him look sad?_

“It is knowledge worth having if I am ever asked to go back. A thorough understanding of their royal history would have saved me days of footwork last time.”

John is interrupted by a knock at the door before he can respond. Lestrade lets himself in but stays near the doorway, not bothering to take off his cloak or sword belt. A case. And if Lestrade is coming in person to fetch him instead of just sending a guard, a case with a much higher chance than normal of being interesting, whatever it is.

"What can you tell me?” Sherlock gets up and gathers the few things he might need as Lestrade talks. John, suddenly no longer sleepy, straps on his vambraces and daggers.

“Anatole Verreuil was taken four days ago and his body found in an abandoned building near the west gate a day later. We have no leads on the murderer, and last night Lucien d’Essoms disappeared on his way home from a friend’s. We need to find him quickly, but I have nothing to start on.”

“You had an entire crime scene to start on. Why didn’t you send for me then?”

“I thought my men could handle it.” The look Sherlock gives him says everything he needs to about the competency of the average city guardsman. “I know. I’m sorry. Just come now, all right? Please.”

As the three men head down the stairs and into the city, Sherlock brings to mind everything he knows about the Verreuil and d’Essoms families, which is unfortunately little. He knows Lucien and Anatole were both young, hardly past the age of majority, and unlikely to have serious enemies in their own right. Sins of the fathers, then? They are both first sons of nobility. Is the world being lazy, or is someone is killing off D’Angeline heirs?

~ ~ ~

There was nothing useful in the abandoned building. Sherlock fumed at the work done by Lestrade’s men, but now that they are looking at the Verreuil boy’s body, John is somewhat grateful they weren’t sent for earlier. He was brutally tortured – bones broken, skin burned and pierced and cut – and he can’t be more than nineteen or twenty years of age, so similar in coloring and hairstyle to Seb that it makes John’s heart ache. He doesn’t think he could have handled seeing him the way Lestrade says he was found. Sherlock examines the body for several moments before speaking.

“He died from the cut across his neck, which happened before everything else. I can’t imagine why, but whoever did this tortured a corpse.”

“Small graces, at least. Anything that can lead us to the murderer?” Lestrade scrubs his hand across the back of his neck, looking defeated.

“No. Is there anything at all that connects him to Lucien? Common enemies or rivals?” Sherlock walks towards the stairwell leading up to the temple, obviously done with his inspection.

“Nothing. They are peers, of course, but short of living in the same country and being close to the same age, their lives never connected.” Lestrade’s voice fades as he follows Sherlock up the stairs. John takes a moment to pull Anatole’s shroud across his face, and to say a prayer to Elua and Shemhazai for his safe passage to the true Terre d’Ange that lies beyond. He fights back the tears that spring into his eyes as he does, pushes away the memories of Carthage that still persist. There is nothing he could have done to save this boy, just as he knows now that he could not have saved Sebby, but that knowledge does little to stay his emotions when faced with yet another life cut entirely too short.

John takes a moment to calm himself before heading up the stairs, nodding reverently to the attending priest as he exits the temple to join Sherlock and Lestrade on the street.

"Lord Verreuil is in La Serenissima. We sent a messenger as soon as the boy was reported missing, but at the earliest he won’t be back until tomorrow, and that’s assuming his passage through the mountains is swift. The poor man doesn’t know yet that his son is dead.”

“His family, then. Are any of them in the city? Lord Verreuil is the key, but the others may have something useful to offer. Lucien’s as well, and I need to speak with whomever saw him last, and follow his path home from there if we can.” Sherlock is as Sherlock always is on a case – impatient, excited, a bit rude, and thinking in a million directions all at once. In less dire circumstances, John loves to watch him work. It really is extraordinary to see. In this matter, however, he just prays that he finds the answer before another life is lost.

For the next several hours, Sherlock is absorbed in his work. They speak with Anatole’s distraught mother and younger brother. They examine the area where Anatole was last seen, look through his rooms, speak with the servants. There are no clues, no leads, no witnesses, not the tiniest scrap of information that Sherlock can use to work his magic. By the time they leave the Verreuil townhouse, Sherlock is growing visibly frustrated with the lack of evidence, and John is trailing behind him making apologies for his manner. As they step out of the carriage in the d’Essoms’ courtyard, John grabs him by the arm.

“What, John? We have no time to waste.”

“I know. Just, stop and breathe for one moment.”

“I have nothing to work with, John. _Nothing_. Whoever did this is careful beyond measure, and if I am to find whatever miniscule trail they have left I need to exhaust every possibility quickly and thoroughly. I will breathe when we are done.”

“If you get any more irritated you’re going to anger everyone to the point that they won’t talk to you, and Lucien can’t afford for that to happen. Please.”

Sherlock’s eyes, pale blue and shining, pierce into John’s for a long moment before he closes them and takes a breath. John pulls him closer, sliding his arm around him and rubbing the small of his back gently. Sherlock lowers his head and rests his forehead on John’s.

“You will figure this out. You always do. Just remember these people are frantic with worry. Empathy will get you farther than rudeness.”

“I don’t know what I would do without you, John.”

“Be a right bastard, most likely. Brilliant, but a bastard.”

Sherlock’s lips curve up in a smirk, and press a kiss onto John’s brow. John steps out of their embrace and nudges Sherlock towards the door. “Go. Solve this.”

The d’Essoms household proves as frustratingly useless as the Verreuil’s. They are reminded that Lord d’Essoms was exiled last year for his part in Ambasador Shaheen’s treachery, which could be a motive for Lucien’s capture, but not for Anatole’s, and it simply has to be the same person. Lady d’Essoms herself is bedridden with worry and has little to offer other than frequent pleas for Sherlock to find her boy. When they leave, Lestrade meets them outside with information about Lucien’s last activities. The three of them find the spot where he was taken and Sherlock lights up at the prospect of hard evidence. There was an obvious brawl as Lucien was pulled into a carriage on a dark stretch of the road, but following the tracks only gets them to the nearest intersection where they are lost beneath an entire day’s worth of horse hooves and carriage wheels.

“Elua’s balls!” Lestrade’s sudden outburst startles a woman closing up her shop on the corner for the day. “Please tell me you have some theory in that mind of yours, Sherlock. We’re running out of time.”

“I don’t. I’m missing something. He has to have made a mistake somewhere.” Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin and looks at the homes and storefronts around them as though he expects one of them to come forward with a confession. When his witnesses refuse to speak, he looks back at Lestrade. He looks tired already, and if the gods are not gracious he could still have days to go before he will rest. “I’m going home so I can think. Have your men search every possible location he could be taken – anything abandoned and off the main roads. Anatole was found in the city, Lucien will be too. And pray to the gods that at least one of us is not too late.”

As they ride back towards Baker Street, Sherlock is quiet and distant. He has turned inward, searching for whatever it is that he saw but did not observe. John knows his role in this part of a case well, that of the silent caretaker, and reaches over to lay his hand gently on top of Sherlock’s. Sherlock doesn’t turn his head from the window or shift his gaze from the passing city streets, and he doesn’t speak or make a sound, but he does slide his fingers between John’s and wrap them around each other. It is a solid point of contact, a brightness connecting them to each other even when Sherlock is wandering far away in his own mind. 

John looks at Sherlock and their interlocked hands and marvels for the thousandth time that this beautiful, mad, brilliant scion of an angel is his. Sherlock is home, and love, and sanity. He is atonement and salvation. He is John’s, and John is his.  

 _Be vigilant, warrior_. The healer’s voice is as vibrant in his mind as always, but her words no longer make him afraid. He realizes that it doesn’t matter if he cannot follow Sherlock on his path, because there is no place in this world or any other that Sherlock could go that John will not find a way to reach him. He _will_ be there at the end of the path, no matter how long the journey or how difficult the obstacles that lie in his way.

Sherlock will not fall because John refuses to let him.

~ ~ ~

James Moriarty steps down onto the docks in Marsilikos, taking in everything around him with a bored gaze, and brushes a bit of dirt off of his sleeve as he walks towards his waiting carriage. His fitted britches and doublet feel restricting after so many years in the robes of a Tiberian scholar, but he must admit that finely made D’Angeline fashion suits him quite well. Settling into his carriage, he glances at the docks before pulling a curtain over the window. Did he really once wander through this busy, noisy place in awe? How naïve he was. He barely recalls the bedraggled farm boy who begged for free passage across the sea years ago. Can a man change so profoundly that he cannot even remember who he once was?

He asks the driver to take him to a boarding house in a decent part of the city, then closes his eyes and lets his mind wander. He never thought he would set foot in Terre D’Ange again, but the interruptions to his work are becoming troublesome and it seems the matter requires some personal attention. James is merely a patron, with no vested interest in the outcome of the requests he grants beyond his strong reputation for favorable results. An occasional failure is even expected when you are so far removed from the actual execution of a crime, so at first it was just an annoyance when the same name kept finding its way to his ears. Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_. The events in Alba, however, cannot be overlooked. The successful rearranging of the Cruithne royalty, with James’ personal recommendations in the appropriate places of power, would have laid the country open to the Guild’s control. The masters are beyond impressed with him already, but to hand them an entire political realm? It would have been a glorious achievement, something for which he would be long remembered, and it crumbled to pieces in the hands of this D’Angeline lord. So the prodigal son has returned to the land of angels to find a solution to his problem.

The carriage pulls to a stop and the driver hops down to open the door. As James steps out, he glances up at the signboard at laughs. It seems he will be spending his night in Marsilikos at The Lamplighter’s Inn. A fortuitous beginning, perhaps. Either way, tomorrow he rides to the City of Elua to see what type of man Lord Sherlock Shahrizai might be.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Unseen Guild is a network of spies who sometimes recruit from the University students in Tiberium. They value secrecy above all, and have had their hands in many matters of politics and war. I'm taking a bit of artistic license with them for this story, but I can't imagine a better home for my Moriarty. The lamp is one symbol used by the Guild - members will carry coins or wear medallions with lamps on them as a way to subtly identify each other.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first - I am so sorry this took so long! I lose all sense of structured days in the summers and life just kept me busy. But I did write some, and I hope you'll accept my peace offering of two (non-beta'd, hopefully not terrible) chapters at once. 
> 
> That said, Chapter 5 may take a while. More life happening. But I will write when I can, and make sure it's worth the wait when it does go up. :) 
> 
> No Kushiel notes other than I took huge liberties with the location of and layout of the Somerville estates. Hope that doesn't bug anyone too much. 
> 
> Looking forward to hearing what you think!

            John leans back in his chair by the hearth and closes his eyes for just a moment of rest. When he opens them, the room is filled with early morning light and he can hear Mrs. Hudson moving about downstairs. He scrubs a hand over his face and tries to figure out how long he was asleep. A couple of hours, perhaps. It will have to do. 

            “Sherlock?”

            Sherlock hasn’t moved. He sits in his chair, legs pulled in close in front of him, arms wrapped around his shins. His chin rests on his knees and he stares unresponsively at the mantle in front of them. John gets up and runs a hand lightly across his shoulder as he walks by on the way downstairs. Mrs. Hudson already has a kettle over the fire and is adding the last items to a tray - toast and honey, the best chance at enticing Sherlock with food during a case. John takes the kettle from the stove, pours steaming water into the two cups, and kisses Mrs. Hudson on the cheek before taking it all upstairs.

            “Thank you.”

            “Of course, love.”

            John often wonders where he or Sherlock would be without Mrs. Hudson.

            Upstairs, he sets the tray on the small table between their two chairs. Sherlock glances at it but doesn’t move.

            “Has there been any word?”

            “No. Not a thing. I even sent for one of my waifs while you slept. People are looking all over the city and no one can find him.” He unravels his arms and lets one foot slide down to the floor as he reaches for his tea. John picks up his own cup and nudges the plate of toast closer to Sherlock. They sit in silence for a few moments, listening to the shopkeepers starting their day on the street below. John breathes a small sigh of relief when Sherlock nibbles at a piece of toast with a thick layer of honey on it. As the room brightens with the rising sun, John finally realizes why Sherlock is so calm.

            “We’re out of time aren’t we?”

            Sherlock nods solemnly. “Any news we get now will be of a body, not a rescued man.”

            Almost as if Sherlock summoned him with his words, Lestrade knocks at their door and lets himself in. The look on his face is all either of them need to see. Lucien suffered the same fate as Anatole. Anger flares in John’s heart as he gets up, breakfast forgotten. He straps on his vambraces and blades as Lestrade speaks.

            “A butcher found him in the back of his shop when he opened up this morning. He was in a nice, populated part of town, a picked lock the only clue anything was wrong from the outside.”

            “He knows we are looking, and went where we would not. He is smarter than I thought.” Sherlock sips the last of his tea before standing and gathering his things.

            “I made certain you will be the first one in the shop.”

            “Good. I’ll need to speak with the butcher after I see the body. Any word from Lord Verreuil?” Sherlock changes momentum during a case like a pendulum, as focused and eager now with work to do as he was lethargic and apathetic just a moment ago.

            “He will be here this afternoon. News of Anatole’s death reached him late yesterday, and he rode through the night.”

            Sherlock nods and looks to John. “Ready?”

            John doesn’t think he will ever be truly ready for the scene that he knows awaits them, but he nods anyway, instinctually checking that his daggers are free in their sheaths. The three men make their way down the stairs and out into the city.    

~ ~ ~       

            An old oak tree silently guards the grass, wildflowers, and gray stones at the top of a long hill as James walks towards it.  His driver waits with the carriage on the road below, having not questioned the sudden request to halt. He didn’t plan to stop here. It hadn’t even occurred to him that the road from Marsilikos to the City of Elua would pass through this part of the province. He had willfully not thought of L’Agnace for so long that the neatly laid out orchards and smell of falling summer blossoms slipped tendrils of longing into him before he could think to stop them. When they rounded a curve and he saw the oak marking the Somerville family graves, his normally cold and calculating gaze softened and a sad smile just barely touched his lips.

            He could not pass through without going to see him.

            Each step forward loosens the careful hold he keeps on his memories. Seb always smelled of cider apples and earth. The wind in the grass imitates his breathing, the sun is warm as his skin always was. Sebby’s presence surrounds James here, in the fields where they played at love a lifetime ago and broke one another’s hearts. 

            He finds the stone easily enough. It is still crisply carved and free from the wears of time that have eroded the others. He stands in front of it for a moment, just breathing, until suddenly breathing becomes impossible. His heart pounds heavy in his chest and his hands tremble. He knew, of course. He knew days after it happened, in far more detail than he wanted. But that was just a report, just words. Words could be wrong, couldn’t they? It was an illogical, unlikely, miniscule hope that James clung to more fiercely than he is willing to admit. But the words weren’t wrong, and Seb’s stone stands as irrefutable proof of his absence from the world.

            The finality of this place is devastating.

            His body screams at him to drop to his knees, to lay his hands and head on the dirt between them, to cry out in his grief. He takes a stumbling step forward, clutching at his center to keep himself standing.

            “Why are you here? Was it all worth it?” He glares at the stone, unexpectedly angry and shaking. His voice becomes an anguished scream. “ _Why are you here?_ ”

            Silence surrounds his words as the wind carries them away. Seb’s stone sits, unaltered and ever present. James opens his mouth to speak – a farewell, an accusation, an adoration all equally ready on his lips – but all the words he can think of fall flat. How do you tell the memory of a man that he is at the center of your heart, and that you _hate_ that? That you forced yourself to forget him, and at the same time refused to do so?

            That you sometimes wonder if you made the right choice in walking away, and now you will never be able to make amends?

            James looks up at the sky and closes his eyes, willing the tears to stop. He breathes in the scent of what was once home and focuses his thoughts on other things until they are no longer blurred with emotion. After a few moments his breathing calms and his pulse slows. He opens his eyes and looks down at the ground in front of him. Sebastian is dead just as he has been all this time. No aching heart, no tears or pleading can change that. No words spoken here will reach his ears. Sebastian is dead, and there are more important things to be doing than weeping over dirt and bones.             

             James makes his way down the hill and into his carriage. The driver commendably does not speak of what he must have witnessed, silently closing the door and climbing into his seat to continue their journey. James knows himself too well to think that he is truly leaving Sebastian on the hill. He will be present with him until he returns to Tiberium, and even then he will linger in dreams and shadows and wafts of air as he always has. But there is a task to be done here. When the city walls come into view that night, James’ head is clear and focused and he is eager to arrive. Finally, something truly _interesting_ to occupy his mind for a while. The carriage passes beneath the arch of the southern gate and he lays his head back against the seat. A wide, easy grin spreads across his face.

            _Hello, Sherlock._

~ ~ ~

            Sherlock paces along one wall of the Verreuil sitting room, lost in his thoughts. Lucien died in the same way as Anatole, and his body was treated in a similar manner. The butcher was completely innocent, merely a victim of having a shop that is easy to get into at night. And the culprit was as careful as the first time. An entire day’s work found no tracks, no clues, no hints that could point them in any direction. They had no way to deduce who might be the next target, and no choice but to wait for them to be taken. It was beyond infuriating, and Sherlock could not stop running his mind in circles looking for the chink in his opponent’s armor.

            “Sherlock.” John’s hand on his shoulder. He turns around. John is concerned about him, but he hides it well. His compassionate warrior, forever a point of strength and stability and _good_ in Sherlock’s world. John smiles at him softly, and motions to a man walking into the room. “Lord Verreuil is here.”

            Marcus Verreuil looks a shell of a man. His shoulders droop, his eyes look dimly out above dark circles on his face, and his straight blond hair falls limp and untended down his back. The journey alone, especially riding all night, is enough to exhaust a man his age. Enduring grief over a lost child along with it could well have been too much for him.

            “Lord Shahrizai, Monsieur Watson. What can I do for you?” He motions for them to sit on a plush couch as he takes a high-backed chair across from it.

            “Lord Verreuil, I am sorry for your loss. I hope you understand my urgency in this, and that I wouldn’t disturb you if it weren’t vitally important for me to do so.”

            “Of course. If you can find this monster, I will help however I can.”

            After several lines of inquiry, however, Sherlock begins to lose hope. Lord Verreuil is offering nothing new, and he is obviously too far lost in his grief to be remembering things clearly anyway. Sherlock looks to John, who gives him the slightest shake of his head. He hasn’t noticed anything either. Sherlock starts thanking Lord Verreuil for speaking with them when the lord interrupts him.

            “There is one thing.” He pauses, one excruciatingly long moment in Sherlock’s mind. “Lucien D’Essoms’ father was exiled for aiding the Akkadian ambassador last year. Elua, if it is this -” He sobs as Sherlock tries very hard to not shake him into speaking more succinctly. Finally Lord Verreuil takes an unsteady breath and the words come tumbling out. “A list was made of all the possible accomplices in the whole affair, perhaps twelve or fifteen names. Some of those on it were exiled or executed, and some were acquitted of their charges for a variety of reasons. The only thing connecting Lucien D’Essoms to my Anatole is that they are both the oldest child of names on that list.”

            “You were charged with treason?”

            Lord Verreuil shakes his head. His voice sounds hollow when he continues. “No. Maryse, my wife. I don’t know what he told her to gain her aid, but she pleaded with me, swore she would never be such a fool again if I would just save her. Keep her with her children. How could I tell her no? Her part was so small, and I don’t think she truly understood what it was she was doing. So we both swore on our family’s honor before the King that she had been used against her will, and she was acquitted. Her name was kept from the public, as were all of those acquitted before the trial began.”

            John shifts in his chair, the slightest change in posture from a concerned priest to a readied warrior, but Sherlock feels like he could laugh for joy! Finally, a connection! It takes some concentrated effort to extricate himself and John quickly but politely. As they stand to leave, Lord Verreuil looks up at Sherlock.

            “What will you do with us, now that you know?”

            Sherlock thinks for a moment, taking in every detail of the defeated man seated before him. He thinks of the five younger children who have already lost a brother. “I think your family has suffered enough, but it will be a swift thing to incriminate both of you if it has not.”

            Lord Verreuil bows his head. “Thank you, my lord.”

            It is all Sherlock can do to not run through the front door. He and John manage to get into the carriage and on their way before all of his thoughts explode outward.

            “I need to see that list. Tell the driver to go to the palace, John. Mycroft will have those names, and we need to warn every one of them, put a watch on them if we can. Killing heirs of the charged, not just the accused. Perhaps someone doesn’t agree with all of the verdicts. Or the sentencing of those accused either. Exile and execution were too lenient. Killing their heirs is more suitable a punishment. Killing and torturing innocent people so that the parents can know what it is to horrifically lose a child.” A moment as everything falls into place, one victim melding into the other in his mind, the answer rising up from the gore. “John, he lost a child. Whoever we are searching for lost a child, probably his heir, in the war. And he is exacting revenge on those he holds responsible for it.”

            “That is a huge number of possible culprits, Sherlock. We lost so many.”

            “But not all were nobility, not all heirs. It’s not much, but it may be enough.”

            The ride to the Palace from the Verreuil townhouse is a quick one. He leans back into John and absently runs his thumb across John’s forearm where it wraps around his chest, content to spend the time rolling this new information around in his mind.  

~ ~ ~

            John sits at their table looking down at a list of thousands of names and knows this is not the right direction to go. Weeding out nobility and heirs from among the dead will take far more time and detailed knowledge of the peerage than either he or Sherlock possesses. Their best hope lay in the list of 13 names that Sherlock tacked to the wall above the couch. D’Essoms and Verreuil are marked through, as is Lady Fournier since she has no children. Of the ten remaining families, six are still at country estates well over a day’s ride away. Messengers were sent to warn them, but it is unlikely the kidnapper will go outside of the city before taking all of the easier targets within it. That leaves four possible victims, one small boy and three young ladies, who are each under a watch. Surely they are nearing the end of this.

            John manages to cajole a few bites of dinner into Sherlock, and then a messenger arrives with word from Lestrade. Henri Rinefort, a nine-year-old boy, disappeared from his family’s home. Guards are swarming the streets surrounding the address when they arrive, and Lestrade is issuing orders in the front courtyard.

            “Sherlock! Thank Elua you’re here.” Lestrade leads them in the front door and up to the second floor as he talks.  “He was taken from his rooms less than an hour ago, pulled through the window and dropped down into a cart that took him on a backstreet. No one was watching the higher windows, and they were near silent. A guard outside caught sight of the cart leaving, but thought nothing of it. The boy’s mother came to check on him and discovered he was missing. My men have been over the entire house, and more are working on tracks through the roads, but I’ve saved his rooms for you.” He motions to the open door just a bit down the hallway they were now in. “Please, Sherlock. Find something.”

            Sherlock barely acknowledges Lestrade as he follows the enticing lure of new clues. John takes a moment for pleasantries, mostly to ensure Lestrade is holding up all right, before following Sherlock into Henri’s room. The full reality of the situation hits him as he sees a wooden short sword stacked next to a dulled steel one in the corner. Elua, he is a _child._

            Sherlock is walking the room, absorbing its knowledge. John leaves him to his work and goes to the window Henri was taken through. There is no blood here, so the boy is probably still alive, but the drop to the ground below would have caused some injury.

            Something on the floor beneath the window catches his attention. His mind is leaping to conclusions before his eyes completely register what it is that he sees.

            “Sherlock?” He hasn’t seen a Muscadet blossom in years. The late harvest apple it produces creates an exquisite cider, and the grafting techniques required to grow it are a highly guarded secret. They only grow in one orchard in the entire kingdom.

            An orchard that John once knew well.

            “Sherlock.” He bends to pick up the fragile flower. It stills shows its unmistakable striped petals despite being half crushed into the floor by a heavy foot after it fluttered from a cloak or some other clothing. He doubts that Sherlock is versed in apple genealogy, but it takes just a moment for him to gather what details he needs from John’s voice and face and the proffered flower.

            Sherlock looks into John’s eyes, his elation at a solid clue for once overshadowed by the implications of it. “The Duc de Somerville lost his only son in the war. Oh, John.”

            Richard de Somerville was stricken with grief when Sebastian died, but he is a _good_ man. Surely he would not consort to this, to murdering and mutilating children? John looks down at the flower on his palm and closes his hand around it. The Muscadet orchard is the closest to the family’s residence. The flowers tend to fall into their private gardens, and anyone entering the orchard would have to go down their personal drive to reach it. The person who took Henri was in either that orchard or those gardens before coming here. That is the only possibility.

            Which means the answers they need to save Henri are there as well.

            John drops his hand and looks up at Sherlock, whose eyes are darting about John’s face with worry. He holds his voice steady when he speaks, refusing to allow the mass of confused emotion in his center to take hold just yet. “The Somerville orchards are almost a half day’s ride away. We need to leave quickly.”

            Sherlock calls for Lestrade, saying something about horses. John lets him take the lead in getting them out and onto the road with mounts while he works to sort his thoughts. He sees the cliff ahead, the one his mind is hurtling towards despite all of his efforts otherwise. It is the smallest voice that pulls him forward, the one that still persists after all these months. It still wrenches him awake some nights, screaming and drenched in sweat. He failed. He failed to protect Sebastian, to fulfill his duty. And if despair over that failure is the muse for these atrocities, the blood of Anatole and Lucien and possibly Henri is on his hands as well. He failed them all that day in Carthage.

            Sherlock puts a hand on his back as he is about to climb onto his horse. “Are you here?”

            John lets go of the saddle and turns towards Sherlock. “You wouldn’t be asking me that if I were. I will be all right.” Sherlock just looks at him, love and worry flaring in eyes already bright from the night’s excitement. John puts a hand on Sherlock’s cheek and gives him a small smile. “I will be. I promise.”

            Sherlock looks doubtful, but he doesn’t press the matter. He kisses John softly and whispers “I love you” across his lips. He’s right, of course. For Henri’s sake, John can’t let his own emotions interfere. Cliffs and small voices and blame must be dealt with later.

            “I love you too. Let’s go.” He mounts his horse and follows Sherlock towards the city gates at a gallop. 


	4. Chapter 4

They arrive at the Somerville family’s home under a pitch black new moon. John drops down from his saddle as a lantern is lit in the entryway, illuminating the ground in front of the windows. A sleepy house boy comes out to greet them, lantern in hand, and his eyes grow wide at the sight of John’s sword and of the two guardsmen Lestrade insisted come along. John grabs him lightly by the shoulder to stop him from moving backwards towards the safety of the door.

            “What is your name, child?” John’s voice is steady and gentle, his face as kind as he can make it in the circumstances.

            “Philippe, sire.” His huge eyes reluctantly leave the guards to look at John.

            “Philippe, I’m John. I’m sorry if we scared you. I promise you are safe, we just need to speak with the Duc very urgently. Could you help us with that?”  

            “Yes. Yes, sire.” He looks at John for a long moment, then relaxes and smiles shyly. “You’re John Watson. I remember you now.”

            John releases the boy’s shoulder and returns the smile. “I am. It’s good to meet you, Philippe. Go wake the duke for me? Quietly, there is no need to rouse the whole house. And then take our horses to the stables and find us fresh ones. They’ll be exchanged again as soon as possible, I’ll make sure of it.”

            The boy glances again at the hilt of John’s sword over his shoulder, now more curious than fearful, and nods. “Yes, sire.” Filled with the importance of his tasks, he hands the lantern to John and sprints back into the house.

            John hears the others dismounting behind him and turns to catch Sherlock looking at him fondly. “You were good with him.”

            John shrugs. “He was just frightened. Can’t blame him for that.” John averts his eyes, gazing off into the darkness as the knot in his stomach coils tighter. Frightened boys are easy to handle, easier than the possibilities that wait for him in the house.

            “John, if this is too personal for you –”

            “No. I know him, and I know his grief. I have to be the one to talk to him.”

            Sherlock nods. A short time later candles are lit on the bottom floor of the house and Philippe opens the front door again. “He’ll be in the study soon. You can come in.”

            “Thank you. I know the way if you could see to our horses?”

            “Yes, sire. I woke the stable boy and told him to be swift, but I’ll wait here till he fetches them.” John can’t help smiling at the boy’s eagerness, though his amusement is dampened by the thought that Philippe must be about the same age as Henri Rinefort.

~ ~ ~

            The Somervilles’ home is the epitome of rustic elegance, the Duc’s study full of dark woods, simple construction, and rich textiles. Light from candles and sconces cast a warm light over the room. Shelves of leather bound ledgers dating back hundreds of years lend permanence and weight to the family’s presence here. Sherlock’s eyes dart quickly around the room and his mind dismisses it all as irrelevant. The answer doesn’t lie in these details. He leans against a corner of the Duc’s desk and his eyes wander to John standing stoicly near the chairs in one corner of the room. What memories must linger in these walls for him? He watches the door with the calm focus of a Casseline, alert and patient. The warmth and simple comfort of the room suits him, offers a glimpse of John as he once was. Sherlock can easily see him here, free from his demons, unburdened by grief. Filled with hope. He mourns for John’s loss even as he thanks Kushiel for the path that brought him to his door.

            No doubt feeling Sherlock’s gaze on him, John turns and their eyes meet. _Elua._ He wears the disciplined Casseline as a mask, or perhaps he is clinging to it as an anchor. Either way, John is very much not all right. Of course he is hurting, anyone would be, but Sherlock had severely underestimated the extent of it. He desperately wants to pull him into his arms, to keep him safe and _loved_ in spite of his protests. He takes a quick step forward, but halts at the arrival of the Duc de Somerville.

            “John! What brings you here in the middle of the night?”

            “Hello, Richard. I’m sorry for waking you.We need to discuss something that can’t wait till morning. Can we sit?”

            “Yes, yes, of course.” When the Duc looks questioningly towards him, Sherlock nods his head politely and introduces himself. He returns to his perch on the desk as John sits across from the Duc in the chairs. He forces himself to pay attention to the Duc instead of John, but can’t help a few concerned glances. John reaches into his cloak for the flower that brought them here. He holds it in his open hand and speaks with a carefully metered tone.

            “I’m sorry that I don’t know how to do this delicately. We don’t have time to be delicate. I need you to tell me why I found this tonight in the room of a kidnapped boy in the city.”

            It is such a small, brief shift in his expression, anyone not watching intently would have missed it. But Sherlock is watching. Though his calm voice gives nothing away, the Duc is afraid of what that flower might reveal. “It’s an apple blossom. It could be from anywhere in L’Agnace.”

            John’s lips twitch into a joyless smirk as though he expected that response and is disappointed in it all the same. “Not this one, and you know that.”

            Richard de Somerville stares into John’s eyes for a long moment. John doesn’t move a muscle, his eyes shine bright and focused. Richard’s brow crinkles and his hands clench into fists in his lap. He glances at Sherlock and looks back to John with an almost pleading gaze. “Do you remember the day his body came home? Were you here?”

            John’s jaw cleches tight, his voice is rough. “No.”

            “No one told us there was more than one wound. That he was beaten and stabbed repeatedly, some injuries before he fell but many after as well. Catherine was prepared to see her son sleeping, passed peacefully to the next world. But his body was so abused. It was too great a grief for her. She is lost now, a shadow of herself.”

            The Duc grows increasingly more agitated as he talks. He stands and the two guardsmen shift subtly closer to the door. “They murdered my son, John! They sent my only child home bruised and broken and dead and it devastated my wife. They took _everything_ from me! For what? Favor with the enemy? Money or the promise of power? They need to understand what they’ve done, to feel what I’ve felt.”      

            John closes his eyes and takes two shaking breaths, crushing the flower in his hand. His voice is frighteningly calm when he speaks. “Tell us where to find Henri.”

            “John, surely you understand! You lost him too.”

            John stands up, sliding his hands deftly to rest on the pommels of his daggers as he does. Sherlock readies himself to intervene if necessary, but stays silent. “Please, Richard. _Where is he_?”

            The Duc looks to the guards now blocking the door and to Sherlock’s calm indifference of his plight, finding neither escape nor allies. He returns his gaze to John. John, with fury in his eyes and righteous death at his fingertips. He falters for half a moment before speaking. “I don’t know. I hired two men. They bring me proof of death and I give them another name. I have no clues to give you. You will never find them in time.”

            “He is a _child,_ Richard! Are you truly so monstrous that you would send death after an innocent boy?”

            The Duc stands silent, looking at John. John shakes with barely contained rage. His fingers slide around dagger hilts.

            “I think I can help.” A boy’s voice from the hallway.

            John keeps his eyes steady on the Duc for a long moment. When he speaks, he drops his hands down to his sides, unarmed. “Philippe? Come in.” He sits, motioning for the Duc to join him, and the Duc wisely does as requested. Sherlock watches John pull himself together for the sake of the child, still perilously rough around the edges.

            Philippe’s courage flags when the guards step aside for him to enter, but John nods at him and he hurries forward. “The men he’s talking about. I heard them last time. While they waited in here.”

            The boy looks nervously at the Duc, but John’s calm tone keeps him talking. “Tell me what you heard.”

            “They were talking about houses? And flowers. And where they could go without being seen or heard. That’s all, really. I only caught a few words.”

            John looks to Sherlock, and Sherlock hardly needs to thinks before turning to one of the guards. “Go now. Send Lestrade to Mont Nuit, start with Valerian and Mandrake. I don’t doubt the easy cover for noise will be tempting for them. Ride fast and we will follow you shortly.”

            The guard nods and leaves quickly, John says something to the boy, and the Duc drops his head into his hands. Perhaps he is coming to terms with where tonight will end. Sherlock gives him a moment to do so and doesn’t think about anything in particular. Details of the case shift about in his mind. A line of thought leads him to another recent case, and then to an older one. Suddenly a signature emerges and he just _knows._ It is faint and gossamer but on so many of his cases. He steps away from the desk as the house boy leaves the room.  

            “My lord Duc, how did you find these men you hired?”

            “They were recommended.” The words tumble from his lips without thinking, he is so surprised by Sherlock’s question.

            “Recommended by whom?” John is looking at him now as well, questions written across his furrowed brow.

            The Duc falters. Sherlock repeats his question calmly. “Recommended by whom? It won’t save you, but it might earn you some leniency.”

            “I don’t-” Sherlock’s piercing stare causes the Duc to stop and start again. “I only know a name. His men found me, I never spoke to him. I don’t even know if he is a real person.”

            “The name, my lord.”

            A pause, a heartbeat. Sherlock murmurs the name as the Duc speaks it.

            “Moriarty.”

            Later, as he and John gallop through the dark night back to the city, Sherlock’s mind flies. The second guard stayed behind to escort the Duc de Somerville into custody in the morning. Hours will pass still before any news reaches Lestrade, and they are perhaps another half hour behind their messenger. But if Sherlock is right, Henri is in one of the older, unused dungeons beneath Valerian or Mandrake House and they still have a very good chance of reaching him in time. The case is all but solved, with only the adrenaline-fired race to the end remaining, yet the bigger prize still eludes him. Sherlock can’t describe what it is that hints to Moriarty’s involvement, he can’t give it any tangible nature in his mind. It is just there, like an artist’s brushstroke in the detail of a masterpiece. It cannot be coincidence, either, that it is growing more frequent. While Sherlock is still fascinated by the mystery of Moriarty, he finds himself growing wary of it as well. Moriarty is more than an entertaining puzzle. It is something he needs to solve before it becomes a problem.

            He glances over at John, what little he can see of him in the dark. He is focused, for now. An angry warrior charging to slay the monster. But when the monster falls and the boy is saved, John will fall apart at the seams. All the emotional damage he is ignoring will slay him anew, and all at once. When it does, Sherlock must be there.

            John comes first. John will _always_ come first. But Sherlock is not certain that Moriarty  will allow him a choice in the matter, and that frightens him.

~ ~ ~

            The Guild maintains a handful of luxurious townhomes in the City of Elua for its own use, but James sees little of his lodgings before the lure of so many unknowns draws him out to wander the streets. The city is magnificent, a marvel of architecture and planning. Street lamps light his way as he takes one turn and another through the Palace District. Carriages clatter down the street taking older nobility home for the evening and groups of brazen young lords ride by on horseback headed to less pretentious parts of town. Young, beautiful, tempting lords.

            James laughs quietly to himself. _Perhaps._

            For all that he wants to hate this place, for all that he despises the gods who dwell here, he finds the cobblestone and white stone surrounding him almost comforting. He walks aimlessly, resting in this small bit of peace. A thread of Sebastian lives here. He once called this home.

            A lone rider just ahead of him reigns in his horse and jumps down from the saddle to adjust a strap. James’ footsteps catch his attention and he turns to look at him. He is blonde, broad-shouldered and muscular, and has bright, inquisitive blue eyes.

            _Almost._

James blinks and Sebastian stands in front of him. Sebastian as he would be today, a decorated soldier and future king. Images of a life not lived fill James’ mind, making his heart ache. Seb laughing as they ride together through these streets, or challenging him from the other side of a well-made chess board. Smiles from the King’s box at a tourney, and perhaps even joie-laced kisses at a midwinter masque.

            _I could have called it home too._

He steps to the far side of the road and changes his path to find the edge of the district. Comfort has turned to misery and he must escape. Eventually he crosses a long bridge over the river that ends in the Market District. His spirits lifted by the change of scenery, he follows his nose to a public house and settles into a table near the middle of the room. The people in taverns at this time of night were the type that wouldn’t know much, but most of them would know _something_ if you paid attention.

            He is almost finished with a bowl of hearty stew and a pint of surprisingly decent ale when a ragged looking girl walks in. She is barefoot and dirty, skinny, perhaps twelve years old. One of the barmaids makes to shew her out until the owner calls to her from the kitchen.

            “Its all right, Corinne! She is one of Sherlock’s. Come here, girl.”

            The girl rushes to the back of the room where he seats her at an empty table. He quickly ducks into the kitchen and returns with a large slice of shepard’s pie and a glass of milk to set in front of her. She thanks him politely before delving into to the food with impressive gusto.

            _One of Sherlock’s what, exactly?_

James orders a second pint and waits. Once the girl has eaten most of her dinner, the owner steps out of the kitchen again and leans against the door frame. He speaks quietly, but that hasn’t been a problem for James in years.

            “Had all of you busy lately, has he?”

            She nods. “Yes, sire. Looking for a boy got kidnapped. Last one that was taken got killed.”

            “Elua! He has you after a murderer?”

            “Well, I guess right now its Captain Lestrade has us after him. Sherlock had to chase a clue, so he told him to find one of us and get us searching.”

            The innkeeper shakes his head and says something else, but James stops listening. He has what he needs. It takes him no time at all to make the right casual inquiries at the next two taverns to learn about the kidnappings. He remembers one of his men mentioning a similar situation, but it was one he chose to not handle directly given who was making the request. Could he have stumbled into one of his own crimes, with Sherlock already in pursuit? How could he possibly pass on the opportunity to see this one play out in person?

            It takes some footwork to locate Captain Lestrade in the city, but before long he has a lead. If Sherlock ran after a clue for the case, it follows that he will find Lestrade again once he’s solved it. All he must do is wait. He finds the Captain and spends several hours tailing him through the night. It’s as exciting as watching mindless ants scurry about for food, but he is a patient predator. Finally, shortly after sunrise, his diligence is rewarded.

            The Captain set up a temporary base in a large plaza near the river, sending groups of men out to check nearby buildings. A guard careens in on an exhausted mount and flies out of the saddle near him. James is too far away to hear what is said, but Lestrade almost immediately starts shouting orders and readying to leave. It is time to act. James lingers in a still dark alley at the edge of the plaza until a guard gets close enough for him to grab quickly. Some well placed hits during the moment of surprise and he has a uniform. When the Captain rides out James is not far behind him, just another blue cloak in his wake.

            They ride to Mandrake House, where James is ordered to guard the entrance. He adjusts his new helmet and settles in to do his duty until his prey arrives. A while later there is a commotion when the boy is brought out, terrified but on his own feet. Seems another failure will be on James’ record. The child is quickly bundled into a closed carriage and taken away. The Captain gives instructions to a few of the other men outside, and two more horses come galloping up the road.

            “Lestrade! Did you find him?” A tall, thin man with a mess of dark curls on his head starts speaking before his feet touch the ground.

            “We did.” The Captain smiles broadly. “He’s going to be fine, already on his way home. Thank you, Sherlock.”

            _Ah._

_Hello._

“We went to Valerian first or I would have been here sooner. Any sign of the culprits?”

            “Nothing. But we’ve just started searching the scene and the rest of the house. If we can manage it I don’t want to question Henri until he’s had some time to recover.”

            “You’re looking for two mercenaries who are about to find out their gold has run dry. I doubt we will find them, but you should still try. Regardless, its over. The other children are safe.”

            “Care to explain?”

            Sherlock glances at the other rider that arrived with him. James hadn’t given him much thought until now. Sandy blond hair cut short, layman clothes but Casseline weapons. Interesting. He stands silent a few paces behind Sherlock, his face grim and his body balanced for combat. “Your second guard will be arriving with the surrendered Duc de Somerville in a few hours, he can tell you everything you need to know. I will fill in the details later if you wish, but right now John and I must attend to more urgent matters.”

            “The Duc de-?” The Captain takes a long moment to fit things together in his mind. Longer than James needs, anyway. The Duc de Somerville with his vengeance killings and a Casseline-trained civilian named John who is not quite holding himself together at the moment. James had hoped to find some small entertainment eliminating the disruptions to his work, and here he is being handed _John_ as well _._

The one man in the whole world whose duty it was to _die_ before letting Sebastian fall.

            _Oh, this is beautiful._    

            “Ah.” Captain Lestrade looks at John with a worried expression. “Of course, go. I’ll check in on you tomorrow?”

            “Yes, thank you.”

             Sherlock turns to John as the Captain disappears into Mandrake House. He takes two steps to close the distance between them and slides his hands onto John’s hips as though he’s made the motion a thousand times before.

            “We’re going home, love.” He rests his forehead on John’s and lowers his voice to a whisper. “I’ll catch you. I promise you I will.”

            While they say nothing of import before leaving, their interactions are captivating. Like two planets orbiting the same sun, even their most subconscious movements gracefully compliment one another. Lord Shahrizai’s heart resides not in his chest, but within John Watson.

            Fractured, oathsworn, guilty John Watson.

            It is such an obvious solution. He could complete his work and be travelling home within a fortnight if he wished. Of course, efficient is also boring. No. Sherlock and John shouldn’t be boring. The solution might be simple, but the path leading to it does not have to be. And when the threads of fate weave together as impeccably as this, one must show reverence. Only James’ finest artistry will do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I'm still alive - are you guys still here? Life is back to predictable patterns and I writing! Yay! Still probably a few weeks between updates - but that's better than months, right? Hope enjoy the new chapter!
> 
> As always, kittengrin has saved you from bad spelling and clunky prose. Thank you <3

John barely acknowledges Mrs. Hudson as he walks through the common room and up the stairs. Sherlock is two steps behind him, but pauses briefly to assure her that the case is solved and the other children are safe.

“Oh, thank Elua! I knew you would solve it, Sherlock. Would you boys like some breakfast?”

“Later. Right now we just need sleep. It’s been a long night.”

“All right, love. I am so glad it’s all over and you’re both safe.”

Sherlock gives her a quick smile before heading up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson starts singing softly while she stokes the fire, and Sherlock can almost believe in the moment that she is right. Of course she’s not, things are far from over, but perhaps they will be blessed with a reprieve.  Elua knows they need one.

He closes the door to their rooms behind him, glancing at the blades and vambraces just inside it. They are carefully placed, not flung across the couch or hanging on the chair as they should be.

_Oh, my warrior._

It is rote, a rhythm, a soldier’s discipline, and an anchor for John’s sanity on difficult days. Yet even a Cassiline’s discipline has its limits.

Sherlock looks to John. He is standing in front of the breakfast table with his hands gripping tightly to either side of the wood surface. His head droops between his shoulders and the muscles of his back are tight beneath his shirt. His entire body trembles in silence. Sherlock aches at the sight of him.

Bronze wings beat in Sherlock’s ears.

_No. Please._

The gifts of Kushiel to his scions are many, and for all of them Sherlock is grateful. To be otherwise would be blasphemous. But this is no rival or enemy with weaknesses to manipulate. This is the physical embodiment of Sherlock’s heart, the one soul in the world he cannot live without.

_John._

He watches helplessly as the seams, the fissures, the fault lines of _John_ all come undone at once. Old scars sear to life, angry and red. Still healing wounds tear anew, pulling out gossamer thread Sherlock had so painstakingly woven in place. John’s head sinks lower and his arms tense. Sherlock takes long strides into the room and is a step away from engulfing him in his arms when John speaks. His voice is cold and rough.

“Stop. You can’t save me.”

“John -”

John screams: a sudden, grief-stricken sound. Sherlock takes a step back as John shoves the table, knocking it over and sending books and tea cups crashing to the floor. Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson stops singing for a measure. When she hesitantly starts again, John turns around. Tears stream down his face as he shakes his head. He opens his mouth to speak, but cannot find words to express the agony that shows in his eyes and clenches his jaw closed again. He sinks to his knees and curls inward, wrapping his arms tight around his center. Sherlock closes the distance between them and drops to the floor. He sits against the back of his chair and pulls John to him, grateful to not be immediately pushed away. John lets himself be moved and tucked into Sherlock’s chest, but refuses to meet his eyes. Despair and guilt shudder through him, carried on an almost forgotten desert wind. Sherlock wraps his arms tight around John’s shoulders and buries his face in his hair, futilely whispering “It’s not your fault” as sobs wrack John’s body.

Eventually John quiets to shaking breaths, staring at nothing. Sherlock holds him close, praying to Kushiel for mercy as John’s breathing finally grows steady and exhaustion claims its toll. Only then does Sherlock acknowledge his own weariness. He lets his head fall back against the chair and closes his eyes. John is clinging to Sherlock’s arms around him, his face is pressed into Sherlock’s chest, and his legs are curled up and over Sherlock’s left one. Sherlock’s right leg is bent up against John’s back. John is completely ensconced, and yet it still does not seem close enough for Sherlock. He pulls John impossibly closer as he finally gives in to sleep.

_I_ will _save you, John, if you’ll let me._

~ ~ ~

When John opens his eyes, the room is filled with bright afternoon light. Sherlock’s heart beats steady and slow in his ear and the warmth of his body surrounds him. John’s muscles are stiff, his face streaked with dried tears. He sits up, careful to not wake Sherlock as he untangles himself, and scrubs his hands over his face. When he opens his eyes again he sees shattered porcelain on the floor and his heart sinks with memories from the night. 

“ _Surely you understand! You lost him too.”_

Lost. Failed. Condemned all of them in one moment of weakness. The anguish tugs at his center, pulling him towards the dark depths of his mind. He knows what waits at the bottom of the cliff. Sand and heat, blood and screaming men. Sebastian forever looking to him for rescue and forever dying, now joined by Lucien and Anatole. He also knows he will not be able to escape a second time. He doesn’t have the strength.

He doesn’t have the strength to fight and that terrifies him.

_Elua, please._

Please, what? What could he possibly ask for? Mercy? Salvation? He was granted those once – to expect that he could be worthy of them again is surely hubris. Not with two completely innocent boys now dead.

Sherlock mumbles in his sleep and reaches for John, his arms just now realizing they are empty. John’s heart throbs and tears threaten to fill his eyes. _Be vigilant, warrior._ Vigilant and broken? Sherlock will try in vain to save him, when he should be paying so much more attention to his own path. John can’t allow that. For Sherlock’s sake, if not his own, he must pull himself together. Just enough to keep going, enough to protect his charge, enough to not fail again. Even if he will never be whole. Never saved, never forgiven. A life lived at the precipice, forever staring down into the oblivion where he belongs.

It will have to be enough.

John lies back against Sherlock’s chest and is quickly wrapped again into his arms. He lets the steadiness of Sherlock’s breathing lull his mind and slides his hand up and around Sherlock’s neck, mindlessly running his fingers through dark curls. Sherlock makes a contented murmur in his sleep, and John is moving before he fully realizes what it is that he wants. He turns his body to face Sherlock, straddling his leg and pressing into him. His lips find pale skin just above Sherlock’s collar, and his free hand grabs tightly to a slim hip bone. He clings to Sherlock, desperately kissing his shoulder, his neck, his jaw. Sherlock moans and moves his hands to John’s buttocks to pull him closer. John grinds his hips into Sherlock and grabs his head in both of his hands.When Sherlock’s lips find John’s they are fervent and needy and most definitely awake. Slender fingers slip beneath John’s shirt and slide up his back, taking the cloth with them. John sits up and pulls it over his head quickly, leaning back towards Sherlock as soon as he is free.

“John.” Anguish and desire weave into breathless baritone. Sherlock presses one hand into John’s chest, stopping him, even as he runs the other hungrily down John’s thigh. His brow furrows as he searches John’s face.            

John wraps his hand around the one on his chest and guides it down to his hip. “Please.” A hoarse whisper is all his can manage. He curls in close, their lips almost touching, his mind now focused and desperate for escape. Desperate to atone for the unforgiveable. “Take me.”

Sherlock moans and shifts his weight forward, pushing John off balance while holding him close with a hand on his back. In one swift motion, his twists them both so that John lands on his back with Sherlock above him. Bits of porcelain crush under John’s naked back, sending brilliant fire shooting through his nerves. He gasps at the pain and Sherlock smiles. Ethereal blue eyes look down at him, dark and stormy with need. They devour him.

His mind goes silent, his breath quickens and a calming warmth spreads from his center. Salvation and vigilance become distant worries as the entire world falls away. Or rather, the entire world suddenly, blissfully becomes only _this._ Only Sherlock.

Only yielding. 

~ ~ ~

Elua, he is exquisite.

Sherlock slides off of John, propping himself up on one elbow and tracing the patterns on John’s skin with his other hand. His fingers move eagerly across collarbone and sternum, travelling quickly downward; John closes his eyes and trembles. Pale, fine scars curl and flow across John’s chest and abdomen, creating a marque unlike any other. Not a testament of freedom from bondage, but rather a story of submission to it. One told in delicate, beautifully carved lines. Some are more prominent than others, ones that Sherlock returns to time and again with his blades. Others are faint and barely visible, but Sherlock remembers making them all.

All but one, anyway.

His hand reaches the waist of John’s trousers, but his eyes linger on the jagged scar across his shoulder.  Physically, it would take a blow equal to its creator to rend it open again, but Sherlock cannot erase this morning from his mind. The wound on John’s soul is still fierce and raging. Kushiel meant for him to see, to have it burned into his memory. To know that he must tread carefully.

John tilts his hips up towards Sherlock’s hand, uncharacteristically impatient. He whimpers and looks up with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Please, Sherlock.”

A broken soul pleads for penance beneath Kushiel’s scion.

_John_ pleads, and there is really only one way to respond to that.

A sly smile crosses his lips and he looks up to see John watching him with rapt attention. He deftly unties trouser laces and brushes his fingers along John’s already hard phallus, his touch cool against John’s skin.

Careful. Yes, he will be careful. But he also has much work to do.

~ ~ ~

Lestrade leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. Everyone save the night guard has gone home, leaving him alone with a dull ache in his head quickly taking away his ability to think. He should go home as well. He can’t quite remember when he last slept, but there is nothing unusual in that.

He sighs and runs fingers through his hair as he sits up. All of the records of the case lay scattered on his desk, waiting to be organized and handed off to the courts for the Duc de Somerville’s trial. He will most likely be standing trial alone – none of the evidence or statements point clearly enough to anyone else. It seems Sherlock was right that the actual culprits would be long gone with their gold. The only real lead Lestrade managed to find is just a name - _Moriarty._ He sent men out hours ago to investigate as they could, but he knows it is a futile effort. This case ends with the Duc unless Sherlock has some illuminating detail to share tomorrow.

Elua, John and Sherlock. Lestrade has never seen John look as haggard as he did in the courtyard this morning. Granted, John only entered Lestrade’s view when Sherlock met him well after Sebastian’s death, but he has since been a bastion of strength and stability. To see that quiet Cassiline fortitude so shaken, and Sherlock so worried, is disconcerting. It is easy to forget Sherlock’s lineage and brush him off as an emotionless, strange savant – most people do. Lestrade knows well enough how to read his face, though. This morning, scion of a god or no, he was _scared._

A knock on the closed door to Lestrade’s office brings him out of his thoughts. He glances over the disarray of his desk and sighs. He should have gone home when he had the chance. Another run of fingers through hair, another headache, another late night.

_Right, then._

“It’s open.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience with my abysmally slow writing. Enjoy!

The first parcel arrives four days later. Mrs. Hudson brings it up with the afternoon tea, but Sherlock pays it little mind. He stands by the open window, eyes half closed, violin tucked into his chin. His fingers dart across strings and his bow flies as he brings the measures of a bright Tsingani reel vibrantly to life. It is his own arrangement of one he and John heard on that perfect night last winter. John’s favorite, actually.

            They could use more cheer around them these days.

            He smiles, thinking of the Tsingani case. A barefoot boy showed up on their doorstep one day, and when the case was solved a fortnight later the boy’s _kumpania_ held a wondrous feast in their honor. The night was frigid, but they were surrounded by brightly painted wagons and kept warm by a bonfire and spiced wine. Stars filled the sky, more numerous than Sherlock thought possible. The air around them was alive with laughter, music, and mouthwatering aromas. John fell in love with everything about the travelers that night. They made him joyfully happy, in a way that Sherlock thought he’d forgotten how to be. And what better host to help you escape your demons?For a night, John was unburdened. He was whole. And he was so _very_ beautiful.

            “Sherlock?”

            John sounds tired and guarded, pulling Sherlock instantly back to the present. Back to John as he is, brightness and laughter forgotten. He brings the reel around to a swift ending and lowers his violin as he turns away from the window.  

            John is sitting in his chair by the fire. Brown parcel paper sits on the table beside him, a scrap of parchment is in his lap, and he's turning what looks like a clay coin about in his hand, studying it. When the music stops, he looks up and holds it out to Sherlock. His face is a perfect mask of Cassiline calm. “It wasn’t addressed to either of us, but I believe it’s for you.”

            Sherlock sets his violin and bow on the desk. He walks over to his chair and sits across from John, taking both coin and parchment. He eagerly searches the surface of the coin for information with one hand as he holds the short note open with the other.

 

_I've been hearing your name, have you been hearing mine? ~M._

 

            “It's him isn't it? Moriarty.”

            “Yes.” Sherlock turns the coin over in his hand and runs his fingers along the rough surface. It is about three centimeters across, made of hardened clay but finely crafted. A lamp is etched into each side, and notches mark a pattern around the edge. It is nothing that Sherlock immediately recognizes, but it is absolutely Moriarty. His coming here was inevitable. Every case solved was another bread crumb for him to follow.

            Sherlock had just hoped for more time.

            John needs more time.

            Sherlock knows so few facts about Moriarty. He can say nothing about his appearance, his country of origin or residence, his daily life, or even if he is in fact a man. But he can speak on his mind, how he thinks, some of his personality. He has no doubt Moriarty could say the same of him. It all comes to light in details of the work as it would in brushstrokes of a master painter. He can identify the silken thread that weaves through all of Moriarty's cases. He can hear genius and madness carried through whispered secrets. He does not know the man Moriarty, but he knows his mind and his heart.

            And he sees a darkness that mars Moriarty's soul.

            John simply cannot be a part of this. Not as he is now. Moriarty will see the damage, and he will find a way to use it to his advantage. If it is Sherlock he wants, he would not hesitate to tear John into irreparable pieces to get to him. 

            Sherlock's stomach lurches.

_Oh, gods. Protect him. Please. I will do whatever I must._  

            “So what is it?”

            Sherlock looks up into pensive blue eyes. Elua _._ “I don't know.” That's not a complete lie, at least. He doesn't know which cipher language it uses. Not yet. “But my guess is just a trinket to see how we react. We've nothing to worry about yet.” He forces himself to set the coin and note casually on a side table and lean back in his chair. 

            “A criminal who wants you out of his way knows where we live. That's something to worry about.”

            “A lot of criminals know where I live. It’s a casualty of what I do. But even if that bit of knowledge made him unique, he would never be so vulgar.”

            “You know what I mean, don't be an arse. How can you be so carefree about this?” John stands up and walks to the window. He folds his arms across his chest, squares his shoulders, and watches the street below: a soldier reporting for duty.

            Sherlock walks to John, stopping a step behind him. He slides his hands onto John's hips and lowers his forehead till it rests against blonde hair. John doesn't move. Sherlock takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

            “I'm not carefree. I have work to do. But we are far from danger still and you have time to rest. I can handle on this on my own for a while with no worry for my safety.”

            _Please believe me._  

            John is quiet for a long moment. He takes a breath and releases his arms, letting his hands drop to Sherlock's. His tone when he speaks is wary and sullen.

            “Promise me.”

            “What would you have me swear?”

            John takes a half step away and turns around so that he can look directly at Sherlock when he speaks. “That you won't go after this man without me. That you won't do anything the slightest bit dangerous without me.”

            No escaping it, then. “I promise you, John. I won't act on anything alone.”

            _And I will pray you never need learn the truth of it._

            “All right.”

            “Truly?”

            “Yes. Just remember I can handle this now if I need to – I'm fine.”

            “No. You aren't.”

            Sherlock's words catch John off guard. He glances away and swallows. “I'm well enough. Don't leave me out of this because you think I'm not.”

            What is one more falsehood now? John would clearly go running in to battle tomorrow if he thought it necessary, and that cannot happen. “I won't. I promise.”

            John nods and finally relaxes, at least as much as is normal these past few days. He steps around Sherlock and away from the window. “I need some air. Are you in for the afternoon?”

            “I have no plans to leave.” At last, the truth. Linguistics is not his forte – the task ahead could take hours.  

            He motions to an open letter by his chair. “Lestrade wants my help with some new recruits. If I leave soon I can walk there and have time to warm up in the yard before their drills.”

            “Go. I’ll be right here when you return.” Sherlock picks up his latest Alban history text and settles on the couch, looking as calm as he can manage. He watches John carefully for the few minutes it takes him to ready to leave and makes an unsettling realization. If Moriarty knows nothing of John, pushing him away is the smart thing to do. If Sherlock is too late though, if Moriarty already knows, then John will be vulnerable on his own.

            The stakes are too high to risk guessing incorrectly.  

            After John says good bye and leaves, Sherlock jumps up. He scribbles a few words on a piece of paper and wraps it around a gold coin. He listens for the front door of the house to open and close before rushing down the stairs and out the back. A skinny beggar, maybe sixteen years of age, is sitting on a crate at the end of the alley. Sherlock drops the bundle into his dish and he immediately picks it up. He unwraps the note, reads it quickly, and nods. Sherlock will have eyes on John in a matter of minutes, and for as long as he wants them.

            Satisfied that he has done all he can to keep John out of harm's way, Sherlock walks back upstairs and closes the door. He immediately goes to the coin, picking it up and studying it closely. He starts filtering through his knowledge of ciphers and coded languages as he skims the bookcases for texts he might need. John is safe, and there is work to be done.

            The game is on.  

            ~~~

            John leans on a wall of the courtyard to catch his breath. He unstraps his vambraces and loosens his shirt while he watches ten guardsman potentials pair off with practice blades. He shouldn't have a sword in his hands today, not one pointed at a real person anyway. He is off balance, or perhaps just distracted. Tired. Angry with Sherlock.

            Angry that Sherlock is right.

            He tightens his jaw. Of course Sherlock is right, but that doesn't change anything. They are out of time. Moriarty appearing now is not a coincidence. No, this is the path that John was warned of and he must be vigilant. Which means pulling himself together enough for Sherlock to believe he is capable. How in Elua's name is he supposed to do that when he can't even handle himself against new recruits?

            He takes a deep breath and turns his attention back to the yard. Lieutenant Anderson is releasing the men for the day as he gives each of the pairs some final pointers. Lestrade walks out of the guardhouse, nodding to Anderson as he goes to stand by John.

            “You all right?”

            “Yes. Just tired.” He nods towards the men. “You have some good talent. A couple of them need practice, but overall I think they'll do well.”

            “That's good to hear. Anderson is an excellent instructor, but you have a much better eye for potential. I'm sure he will tell me half of them are useless.”

            John smirks; it is the closest to a laugh he can manage today. Lestrade glances at him with concern but doesn't say anything, and they both go back to watching the recruits. Anderson releases the last pair and one of them walks towards John and Lestrade. He is a man not much taller than John with short, dark hair. John didn't work with him today, but from what he saw he was at least somewhat competent with a blade. As he approaches them, his face lights up with excitement. 

            “Brother Watson?”

            “Not Brother. Not in a long time. What can I do for you?”

            “Oh, nothing. I just wanted to meet you properly. I've never met a real Cassiline.” He puts his hand out in front of him eagerly. “Richard Brook, from Namarre.”

            The man's smile grates on John's limited patience. “And you still haven't. Though I am certain you will soon enough now that you are in the city.”

            “Right.” He drops his hand to his side. “Well, I'm glad to have met you all the same. Aren't you the same Watson that once guarded the Dauphine?”

            That grin again. Elua. The last thing he needs today is an awestruck farmer-turned-soldier thinking he's some hero. John gives Lestrade a pointed look and picks up his vambraces. He mumbles 'excuse me' and walks away, leaving Lestrade to make whatever apologies he feels necessary.

            Lestrade catches up to him as he walks into the guard house. “Have time for a pint? I just need a few minutes to finish things here.”

            “Will you believe me if I say no?”

            “Not really.”

            “Thought so. I’ll wait for you out front.”

            John walks out to the street just as the sun slips beneath the horizon, taking autumn's warmth with it. It is pointless to attempt avoiding this conversation. Lestrade is concerned, perhaps even rightfully so, and he will have his say whether John wants to hear it or not. If he'd said no to the tavern, Lestrade would just find him at home and not care that Sherlock was there to hear it as well.

            John sits on a bench to wait and pulls his cloak close around him.

            Cassilines are trained from a young age to find their center, their calm, no matter the distractions. Thinking clearly in stressful situations is imperative to protecting their charge. Yet John can't manage a harmless recruit without losing his temper, and he hasn't thought clearly in days. If Sherlock were in mortal danger tomorrow, John isn't certain he would be able to protect him. He thought he could lock away the worst of it, just move on like he did when he first returned from Carthage. But he can't. He can't think, he can't sleep. He can't turn away long enough to breath, and he is suffocating.  

            “Ready?”

            John startles at Lestrade's voice, but manages to not let it show. He takes a moment to gather himself before standing up. “Lead the way.”

            They spend the walk discussing some of the recruits, who would serve better here or there, how to best train those that need more help. In not much time at all they reach the edge of the palace district and walk in to The Lady. The tavern is bustling at this time of day, but the innkeeper recognizes them and meets them with their usual lager at a front corner table. Settled and with pints in hand, Lestrade gets directly to his purpose.

            “How long do you plan to go on pretending you're all right?” John looks out the window to the street to avoid Lestrade's worried look. “And don't tell me you're fine. You were all over the place today. If those swords had been sharp you would be dead.”

            “I don't know.” He takes a drink and looks back at Lestrade. “As long as I need to.”

            “Well, you're rubbish at it. Tell me what's going on?”

            John shakes his head. “Nothing you can help with. I’ll figure it out.”

            Lestrade studies him for a long moment before speaking. “You must know it wasn't your fault. Not Sebastian, and not the two boys.”  
            John looks down at the table and at his fingers laced around the cold mug. “I know.”

            “John -”

            “I do. I know we did everything we could to save them.”

            “That's not the same thing.”

            “No, it's not.” John looks up and meets Lestrade's gaze. Lestrade eventually sighs and looks away. He takes a draw from his pint and lets his eyes wander through the crowd, obviously contemplating a response.

            “I will leave you alone with this. But only if you promise to do something, and to do it soon.”

            John raises an eyebrow in question.

            “Spend a night at Gentian house. I will go with you if you'd like. Or I'm certain Sherlock would as well. Let them help you.”

            “The Night Court? I didn't think that was your sort of thing.”

            “They are good at what they do, and that has its uses. Will you go?”

            John opens his mouth to say no. The last thing he wants to do is spend a night with one of the mystics of Gentian house. He doesn't doubt their abilities, nor does he cherish the thought of what they might see when they use them on him. But, in spite of their relatively short acquaintance, John considers Lestrade a close friend. His presence helped tremendously as John adjusted to life outside of, and without the fraternity of, the brotherhood. He understands parts of John's personality, parts of his past, that only make sense to another soldier. He understands at least some of what John is fighting with now _,_ and if he thinks the dreamers can help then John owes it to him to let them try.

            “All right. I will go.”

            “Soon.”

            “Yes. And alone. I don't need either of you watching over me.”

            Lestrade smiles. “Fair enough.” Apparently satisfied, he moves their conversation back to easier topics. John sips his pint and follows along as best he can. His thoughts, however, keep returning to Gentian house and the possibilities it presents. He cannot be forgiven, not this time, but he is not asking for forgiveness. He just needs rest, a chance to catch his breath. To refocus on the task at hand. If the servants of Naamah can give him that, he would be grateful.     

            Perhaps there is some small mercy to be found for him after all. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not beta'd, and it might be crap. But I had to wrestle plot monsters, and I've been sitting on the first half for months, and I just need this bit up and done so I can move on to the next chapter. There. I hope you like it. :) 
> 
> Minor spoilers for Kushiel books 4-6 regarding guild communication. 
> 
> Hefty creative liberties taken with guild history, how libraries work in Terre D'ange, and how ciphers work in general.

 

Sherlock looks up from a manuscript and glowers at the shelves around him. He spent all day ensconced in the archives of the royal library and it seems that the coin's message eludes him even here. He steeples his fingers and rests his chin lightly on them.

_Think._

John came home later than usual last night, and a little drunk. Sherlock must remember to thank Lestrade for that. Alcohol doesn't solve anyone's problems, of course, but it made John less guarded. More himself than he has been. Sherlock can often be remarkably single-minded when working, but this was an opportunity not to be wasted. John smiled at him, and he led John to their bed weaving prayers to Naamah into every touch.

            The corner of Sherlock's mouth turns up in a grin. Thinking of John will not solve his current mystery, as entertaining as it might be. Sherlock returned to his books last night while John slept more deeply than he had in weeks, but the answer was not to be found in Baker Street. When Sherlock left for the palace this morning, John seemed relieved both that Sherlock would be somewhere well-guarded and that he could stay home alone nursing his lager-induced headache. An hour's work in the archives rewarded Sherlock with his first real lead, but it wasn't much and was so far a dead end. The cipher language was created by a priest of Asclepius, a Tiberian god of healing. The priest's sight failed in old age and the notched code allowed him to keep notes about his patients that he could read with his fingers. The priest's earlier written work and transcriptions of some of his coded notes were easy enough to find, but the cipher needed to read the language was conspicuously absent.

            Sherlock yet again filters through all of the bits and pieces in his mind looking for anything that will make a connection. He is so entranced in his own thought that he startles when a young scribe sets a heavy crate of books and papers on the table in front of him.

            “This is the last of it, sire. Everything we have on Asclepius, his temples, and the blind priest. These are a lot older than the rest, but I trust you will take care with them.”

            “Thank you.” He motions to the piles of books and papers scattered around him as he gets up. “You can put all of these away if you'd like.”

            The scribe nods and stacks books to carry away as Sherlock empties this last hope for _something_. He finds religious tomes along with books on medical anatomy. There is an old map of a region of Tiberium. There are architectural drawings of a monastery, monetary accounts of various temples, even personal letters and journals. He finds nothing at all, however, about languages or ciphers. He curses loudly and steps away from the table. Frustrated and ignoring the scribe's admonition, he throws the ledger in his hands across the room.

            As the book sails through the air, a small, folded piece of parchment falls out of it.

            _Surely it's not..._           

            Eager to know, but also oddly frightened of that knowledge, Sherlock goes first to pick up the book. A quick inspection shows that time has loosened the binding glue and opened a pocket hidden cleverly between the endsheet and the back cover. He missed it earlier. Heart thumping, he walks over to and picks up the parchment. It is blank on one side, but he flips it over to see an embossed lamp similar to the one etched on his coin. He rubs his thumb lightly over the raised image, very aware of how many centuries might have passed since it was hidden away. What secret was so carefully protected for so long? Curiosity quickly overcomes any fears he had. He sits and gently unfolds the fragile paper.

            _Elua._

This is it. The entire cipher. It is everything he needs to read Moriarty's message.

            And it was buried deep, purposely erased from public literature, but marked for recognition with the lamp. Why? And how does Moriarty know of it?  

            “Find something, sire?”

            Elua, he is jumpy today. John usually handles other people when he's working; he is no longer used to giving attention to the outside world.

            “Possibly. I'll keep this one for a few days,” He motions to the ledger now on the table next to him. 

            “Of course, sire.” The scribe glances at the spine of the ledger for just a moment, but Sherlock knows he'll remember it perfectly until he has time to record it in the archive's account.

            Preferring a bit more privacy to work out the message, Sherlock gathers book, parchment, and all of his notes into his satchel. He leaves a small purse of coins to thank the scribe for his help and walks quickly up three flights of stairs to the main level of the palace. Darting through a servant's door, he winds his way around to a rarely used veranda in view of the royal orchards. He has several escapes like this in the palace, a result of growing up in Mycroft's socially elite shadow, and they are often just as useful now as they were then.

            He quickly sits on a bench and pulls out the cipher and his journal. His mind is reeling with questions about the bigger picture, but those must wait. Right now, there is the coin. He starts by carefully copying the cipher into his journal. The original is too delicate to open more than necessary, and should be kept somewhere secure until he decides what to do with it. Once  it is safely back in its hidden pocket and the ledger in his bag, he runs his fingers along the edge of the coin while reading the cipher. He mumbles letters quietly as he works until he is certain he is reading it correctly, then scribbles them into his journal to find the beginning. A moment later and he has his answer.

            _“_ _I owe you._ _”_ Sherlock's brow furrows for an instant before he understands. “Of course you do. _”_ So many of his recent cases were Moriarty's work, and even if that were not true he can't imagine the man took the news of Alba well. Common crimes are one thing; orchestrating a successful coup against the Cruarch would have been the highlight of Moriarty's career. It makes sense. So why the need to send so cryptic a message?

            _To show me that he can._ He is showing off and waiting to see if Sherlock can keep up. He was able to today, but only by a stroke of pure luck in finding the cipher. And the message is, at the end of it all, rather useless. It is not a clue to follow further or instructions on how to respond. It does not illuminate the next step as he had hoped it would.

            Sherlock looks up as two kitchen maids walk towards him from the orchards, talking cheerily and carrying a bushel of apples between them. For once today the noise is enough to pull him out of his reverie. He looks past the girls to see the sun nearing the tops of the trees. The day is growing late, and he should get back to John.

            He rubs his thumb across the edge of the coin for perhaps the thousandth time before slipping it safely into his satchel with his journal. Moriarty is dangerous, especially where John is concerned; Sherlock knows that. He must ensure John stays safely out of harm's way. But that doesn't stop his pulse from racing with excitement as he makes his way to the west courtyard to summon a carriage. If Moriarty's first pawn on the board is a centuries-old obscure language, what other magnificent enigmas might he have in his arsenal? It is a seductive prospect, just as Moriarty intended it to be, and Sherlock would be lying if he said he could resist it.

            It seems his opponent does know him well, but then the opposite is also true. A smile crosses his lips as he waits in the courtyard. He needs details, more facts, but those will come. Moriarty wants to play a game, and Sherlock has always been quite skilled at chess.

             ~~~

            John slips out of his boots, setting them neatly on the ground by a stone bench. His temples ache when he leans over, but that is a vast improvement over this morning. He steps barefoot onto the grass, onto the holy ground of Elua's temple in the City, and breathes deeply to clear the lingering cobwebs from his mind. He walks a path he's followed a thousand times, eyes downcast, each step a wordless prayer. 

He stops a few paces in front of the statue of Blessed Elua. He kneels in reverence, sitting back on his feet and bowing his head. When he crosses his vambraces to rest his hands near his dagger hilts, he looks every bit a Casseline in form if not in dress. Which does of course mark him for what he is here – anathema. One who insists on breaking all of the rules, on asking for forgiveness only on his own terms. He hears movement behind him as two men leave the temple. It isn't uncommon for brothers to finish their prayers shortly after he arrives, and John doesn't hold that against them. He closes his eyes and breathes.

            Help me. _Please._         

            It seems that the first whispers of war were a lifetime ago. The Terre D'Ange first sighted by invading ships surely existed in another world. How little they knew then of what was to come. How ignorant they were of the price they would all pay. From the lowest house in the realm to the highest – none had been truly safe. None had gone untouched by grief in the end.

            And so many had been ripped asunder by it. 

            _Please._

Would he never be free of this?

Breathe.

            John focuses on steadying the rhythm of his lungs, falling back on childhood lessons of the simplest meditations. Eventually his heart slows and the knot in his stomach loosens its grip a little. It’s all still there – the guilt, the fear, the anguish. But with enough effort, he is able to force everything to a distance.

            Just breathe.

            Half an hour passes before he moves again. He opens his eyes and blinks at the ground for a moment before looking up into Elua's smiling face. He was offered no words of wisdom, no solutions. But he had been blessed with solace for a time, with _quiet,_ and that was enough. He whispers his gratitude before getting to his feet.

            The sun is falling low in the sky; he should go home. As he is lacing up his boots, he contemplates sending word that he will be out late and hiring a carriage to take him to Mont Nuit. It is still early enough that he can slip into Gentian House unseen, and it may be best to just get it over with. Perhaps by the time the sun rises tomorrow he will have banished his demons. Could it be that simple?

            Perhaps. But Sherlock spent the day researching in the palace archives, and that could mean any number of things good and bad. John leaves the temple and turns towards the river. It’s worth the walk to see that Sherlock is safe and willing to stay that way for the night. He’ll argue when John insists on going to Gentian house alone, but he’ll understand the need for it.

            The sun sinks behind the western wall as lamp lighters hurry to finish their work. Horse hooves clack and clatter on cobblestones, people pull their cloaks close against the evening chill, and a beggar on a corner asks for change. When John drops a few coins in the man’s bowl, he looks up and cheerfully says, “Elua keep you, sir.” John smiles back at him and continues walking. Three paces later he stops and turns around. He knows that face, he thinks, and that voice. From where, though? It sets him on edge. The pool of lamplight where the beggar stood is empty, and there is no sign of him nearby. _Dammit._

John looks for a moment longer before giving up. Perhaps he’d recognized John as well and run. Either way, there is little to be done about it now but stay alert and walk quickly. A few moments later he crosses the bridge into the market district. He turns the corner onto Baker Street and sees Sherlock silhouetted through the curtains in the upstairs window. His violin is balanced against his chin and he sways slightly as he glides his bow across the strings.

            Sherlock is safe. And in a good mood. 

            John breathes a sigh of relief and smiles as he takes the last few steps towards home.

              

   


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did my best to make it worth the wait, and then Fascinated took time out of a busy week to make it better. (Thank you :)) I hope you guys like it, and as always would love to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> Kushiel notes at the end to avoid spoilers.

 

Sherlock lays his violin in its case as John walks up the stairs to their rooms. He’d left word of where he was going, but all the same Sherlock feels calmer at the sound of his step on the boards. He overhears Mrs. Hudson telling him she will bring dinner up in a bit, and his cheerful response. Visiting the temple had been a good idea.

Sherlock smiles when John walks in the open door. “You look rested.”

John returns the smile. “Getting there.” He takes off his cloak and hangs it on a hook by the door. “Mrs. Hudson insists on bringing up dinner.”

“She’s still cross with me for skipping breakfast this morning. I’ll not get away with that twice in a day.”

John laughs. It’s not much of one, but it’s a start. He unbuckles his vambraces and sword belt and drops them into his chair. Sherlock sits on the couch and settles comfortably in the corner cushions. “Come here. I missed you today.”

John steps out of his boots and walks towards Sherlock. He sits lengthwise on the couch, leaning his back against Sherlock’s chest and resting his head on his shoulder. Sherlock curls in towards him a bit and wraps his arms around his center. They sit in silence for several minutes and it feels like coming up for air. A moment to find each other, to reach across the gap. A reminder and a promise. He pulls John closer to him, and John hums contentedly in response.    

“How are you, really?”

John thinks a moment and sighs. “I’m not all right. But I’m working on it.”

“How can I help?”

“I don’t think you can. Not right now, anyway.” John runs his thumb across the back of Sherlock’s hand on his chest. “I still need you. Just to be here.”

Sherlock rests his cheek on the top of John’s head. “Always.”

John smiles. “Did you find anything in the archives?”

“Some interesting history that I can bore you with another night.”

“And Moriarty?” Sherlock can feel John’s heart beat faster in his chest with the question.

“No more messages. There will be eventually, but we still have time.” _A little, if we are fortunate._

Before John can respond, Mrs. Hudson comes in the doorway with their dinner. She promptly sweeps them over to the table and puts a steaming bowl of beef stew in front of each of them before bustling off to straighten the room while they eat. It’s what she does when she is worried about them, and it’s rather endearing. Sherlock listens as she and John talk happily about her sister’s trip to Aragonia and the neighbor’s niece who just got married, and all manner of happenings in the life of Baker Street. He laughs as she recounts the morning antics of the baker’s son, and glances at John to see him laughing as well. The closest thing to a real laugh Sherlock has heard in a long time.

_Thank you for this. For them. I would be lost without him, and we would both be lost without her._

An hour passes before they say goodnight and see her off with their gratitude and promises to come down soon for tea. John closes the door behind her and turns around with an odd look on his face. He makes his way to his chair in front of the fire before speaking, and Sherlock sits across from him. 

“Lestrade said something last night. He thinks an adept of Gentian House could help me, and I think he may be right.”

Unexpected, especially from Lestrade, but it’s possibly a rather brilliant idea. “He might be. I know Félicienne Sauveterre. I can ask her to reserve us a – “

“No. I need to do this alone. And I’d like to go tonight, if you have no plans to go out.”

“I don’t.” The thought of John venturing through the often chaotic streets of Night’s Doorstep and Mont Nuit without him was frightening. Sherlock’s waifs were watching him, of course, but they couldn’t defend him. And for all that John was in better spirits today, he still wasn’t himself and people went missing there all the time. It would be all too easy for Moriarty to act. Unlikely, perhaps, but easy. “Let me share a carriage with you. You can leave me at Valerian for the night –I’ll be as safe there as here.”

John considers him for a moment. “All right. I imagine if I said no you would follow me anyway.”

“Most likely.”

John gives him an exasperated look that he has seen more than a few times before, but then he smiles. “Well then, shall we?”

~ ~ ~

James watches from an alley as his quarry climbs into a carriage. Thankful he’d taken time to change out of his beggar’s costume, he hails one for himself. He could of course hire someone to do all of this footwork for him, but where is the fun in that? It feels good to actually be an agent on the ground again instead of signing off on orders for other people to do the work. So far today he’d participated in morning guard drills, met a priest of Elua, and even made a bit of coin sitting on his corner. He is learning much about the city and its people, and about Sherlock and John. He knows he needs time to sort through all of the day’s observations, preferably before drills in the morning, but he can’t quell his curiosity quite yet.

He steps into his carriage and gives the entirely cliché request to follow the one in front of them before sitting back to watch the city pass by through the window. When they cross the bridge that takes them into Night’s Doorstep and on to the gates of Mont Nuit, his smile grows wide. The Court of Night-Blooming Flowers caters to a wide variety of interests. James has an idea of which one draws Sherlock here, he is Shahrizai after all, but even if he is right there is still much he can learn.

_Are we headed to Valerian, Sherlock? I must admit that it has intrigued me._  

~ ~ ~

John asks the driver to wait until Sherlock steps inside before continuing on. It’s foolish, but it makes him feel better. No harm can come to him here, surely. The carriage starts to move. He says a quick prayer for Sherlock’s safety and then turns his thoughts inward.

He’d had a good day. It seems both of them had. Those happen occasionally, even in the worst of it. That’s why he needs to do this tonight. A night and day of normalcy poured into him like an elixir, filling him with something close to hope. The mystics could help him, and he could be brave. He could fight through anything tonight if it meant getting back to days like today. Back to normal and happy.

They arrive at Gentian House in not much time at all. John pays the driver and sends him on his way. Without really thinking about it, he checks vambrace straps and dagger hilts as he walks up to the polished wooden door. It bears a bronze relief of the House sigil - gentian flowers wrapping around a full moon.

John hesitates briefly before knocking on the door.

_Breathe._

A young girl leads him to a private salon and asks him to wait. A few moments later, a man walks in. He is about Sherlock’s height, but with broad shoulders and a more muscular build. He wears the simple cuts and muted hues characteristic of the house, and his mahogany hair is gathered in a long plait down his back. Pale green eyes gaze kindly out from a beautifully angled face.       

“Welcome to Gentian House, sir. My name is Tristan. May I ask yours?”

“John Watson.” 

“Please, John, sit.” If he recognizes John for who he is, he hides it remarkably well. He motions to two couches with a low table between them and waits until they are settled to continue. “How may we be of service?” 

“I – I don’t know exactly. I have nightmares, and worse. I can’t think or sleep or do much of anything most days.”

Tristan nods. “We have a number of apprentices and adepts that can help you. You may mingle in the public salon if you wish to choose for yourself, or I could select a few for you to meet here.”

“An adept, please. Gender and appearance don’t matter.” He’d thought some about this choice and realized he has no real preferences. Sherlock is the beginning and the end of his true desire. Everything else pales in comparison to lean muscles under pale skin, to hungry grey eyes, to ‘ _John_ ’ in whispered baritone. He doesn’t doubt that he will enjoy the carnal aspects of the evening, but the physical nature of his host is not important. “I need someone who is not afraid of dark places. Could you choose for me?”

“Of course, sir.” He considers John for a moment, his eyes intelligent and discerning. “I know of just the one. If you will excuse me, I will go find her for you.”

John nods. He leans back on the couch as Tristan steps out. _Almost there._ He focuses on a point on the wall and on his breathing until he hears footsteps in the hall. The woman who opens the door is perhaps ten years his junior. She is not D’Angeline, but she is still remarkable in her imperfect beauty. Wild, dark hair falls in curls and waves around a pleasant face. Freckles dance chaotically across her nose and cheeks, and her full, round lips look eager to smile. She wears a loose, flowing robe of white and gold that hints at slender hips and small, round breasts. When she turns to close the door, the low cut back reveals her completed marque. Deep blue gentian flowers grow through a galaxy of freckles up her back to wrap around a full moon between her shoulders. She smiles radiantly when she turns back to John.

“Hello, John. My name is Niamh.” Brown eyes hold his gaze when she speaks, and her words lilt with a Cruithne accent. “I believe I can help. Would that please you?”

John’s heart trembles. Of all the adepts in this house of dreamers, Tristan had brought him a daughter of Alba. It could mean nothing. She could be simply Alban and nothing more. He could also refuse her and request someone different, someone safer. But he knows she’s not, and he knows he can’t. This is the path he must take if he is ever to find his way home again.

He takes a deep breath before responding. “Yes, it would.”

She smiles, softer this time. “Good.” Tristan returns to conduct the necessary business matters of the night and in not much time at all, Niamh leads him through the hallways and stairs to her door. She opens it to a room of warm colors and soft light, furnished with simple, comfortable things. In one corner, an apprentice sits abeyante beside a large tub of steaming water.

“Please make yourself at home. I have a few things to do, but Ansell will take good care of you in my absence.” She steps close to him and brushes her hands across his cheek and through his hair. She crinkles her brow and considers him carefully. Her dark eyes are fascinating, and when she speaks her voice is low and soothing. “You are safe with me, John. In every way you need to be. I promise.”

Her words, and her voice, float around in his mind while he soaks in a luxuriously hot bath. When he eventually steps from the tub, Ansell is waiting with towels and a soft robe for him. His clothes have been folded neatly and set on a table next to his armor and blades.

“Shall I send for food or wine, sir?”

“I’m not hungry. Wine would be wonderful though.”

John ties his robe and settles into a chair by the window. Niamh’s room is on one of the upper floors, lending to a beautiful view down Mont Nuit with the palace walls rising high in the distance. Ansell returns with a decanter and two glasses, and John does his best to just _be_. He sips warm, spiced wine, watches clouds move across the dark sky, and listens to music that drifts up from the salon on the ground floor.

A short time later, Niamh returns and Ansell slips out quietly. She picks up the second glass of wine from the sideboard and leans against the window frame by John. She is, quite simply, exquisite. Her dark brown curls are pulled up in lover’s haste knot, but escaped tendrils fall gracefully across her neck. Her pale skin takes on the warm tone of the room and her eyes dance in the candle light. Her bright, sudden smile dimples her cheeks.

“You’re a bit of a mess, aren’t you?”

John laughs, both surprised by her frankness and embarrassed by how long he must have been staring. “I think I am, yeah.”

She puts her glass down on the windowsill before reaching a hand out to him. “Let’s see what I can do about putting you right again.”

John stands up and she pulls him to her. His lips meet hers; she tastes of honeyed tea and her skin smells of lavender and sage. Her hands move to untie his robe, his rest on her slender waist. Perhaps it’s the wine, or perhaps Niamh and the feared gods of Alba are already weaving more powerful threads around them. Whatever the cause, John finds himself completely entranced with her. He runs a hand up her back and unties the top of her dress. Silken material slides down her body and pools on the floor at her feet. Soft, cool fingers move across his shoulders, pushing the robe off of him.

She slides her hands down his chest, pausing suddenly at his scar. She pulls back enough to see it and frowns in concern. “What happened?”

“An Umaiyyati sword went through me. It should have ended me.”

She glances up at him, intrigued, and then her gaze takes in the bright pale line below the scar, etched skillfully into his skin. It is one of Sherlock’s favorite paths down his chest and stomach. Her fingers follow it lightly, and a moment later she sees the lighter ones curling across his torso and arms. She whispers something in Cruithne before looking back up to him. “Someone is trying very hard to keep you together.” She kisses him softly, her tongue lingering on his lips. “If the sword were meant to end you, it would have. You are alive, and you are here, exactly as you should be.” She smiles and the world grows bright. “Go lay down.”

John leans back against the headboard of the large bed and watches her as she moves about the room. She drops resin into lit braziers on the wall and the rich scent of opium slowly fills the air. She gathers vials from a cabinet and drips various sweet-smelling oils into a bowl, picking it up a few times to swirl it gently in her hands as she does. She walks over to the bed and smiles at him when he catches her eye.

“Lay down.” A playful scolding. “On your stomach.”

He smiles and does as she asks. He folds his arms under a pillow and rests his head on top of it, closing his eyes. He soon feels her hands spreading oil across his back and he can’t imagine opening them again. She follows Sherlock’s lines at first, working their curves and strokes into her motions. Perhaps encouraging them to aid her magic. She moves slowly and sensually, finding every knot and tightness with skilled hands. The air grows sweet around them and she works until he is languid.

She tugs gently at his hip and he rolls on to his back. She is stretched out next to him on her side, propped up on her elbow. Her free hand never leaves his skin, sliding up his stomach and chest as he turns. Her warmth envelopes him. He pushes himself up with one arm and reaches for her. He caresses her cheek and finds himself in awe of the softness of her skin, the brightness of her eyes.

He kisses her deeply and lets go all resistance.

~ ~ ~

Sherlock refills his glass and stokes the fire before returning to his chair. He knows John is safe behind the walls of Gentian house, but he’d still left word with the doorman to bring his messages with utmost urgency. He says prayers to Na’amah and Elua, both to keep John safe and to lead him to the answer he seeks. To make him whole again.  

_Please. I cannot live without him._

The fire crackles, and Sherlock sips his wine.

He had declined the docent’s offer of interrupting Molly with another patron. He could have her available for him whenever he wished, at a moment’s notice, but he would never dream of doing so. She is an apprentice still limning her marque, and a courtesan building her clientele for the day it is done. He’s waited before, and he can wait tonight.

She would be in no condition for their usual entertainments, of course. Valerian adepts and apprentices rarely accepted more than one assignation a night, and with good reason. He’ll demand nothing of her, but she will choose him over the comfort of her own room when her guest leaves. He will give her wine, wrap her in his arms, and remind her of how extraordinary she is as she falls asleep. Being allowed to do so on nights like this is an honor not lost on him, and he will be grateful for the company of a friend.

Until then, he has this wonderful solitude.

He closes his eyes, listens to the silence, and smiles. In his mind, he opens his box of clues about Moriarty and spreads everything out for another inspection.   

~ ~ ~

John drifts through the languid, blurry edges of sleep. He is spent in so many wonderful ways. He feels Niamh’s lips move against his skin, whispering in her foreign tongue. An invocation, perhaps, to carry him the rest of the way. He curls around her warmth, pulling her closer to him. She hums and presses into him.

“Sleep, John.”

~ ~ ~

James watches the kitchen garden of Valerian house until a hapless servant steps outside for a breath. A friendly greeting, an offered drink, and James easily acquires less noticeable clothing. He’ll come in through the front door before the fun is over, but tonight is better served by anonymity. Be silent, be alert, and listen. It is one of the earliest lessons he learned in Tiberium and still one of the most useful. There is no need to hurry into action; he has no intention of disturbing Sherlock’s night. No, tonight he is merely an agent sent to observe.

He smiles widely as he dons the servant’s cap and steps inside.

~ ~ ~

The noise is deafening – steel on steel, horses screaming. Scorching heat fills John’s lungs with each breath. A man in Umaiyyati armor raises his sword and John runs him through before he has time to strike. The smell of blood is everywhere.

“John!” Seb’s voice, from farther away than it should be.

_Elua, where are you?_

John turns to find his charge yards away, with just a few men between them. He moves forward, promptly dispatching all three. He reaches for Sebby, pulling the boy quickly behind him.

The boy.

_No._

John’s heart pounds in his chest. Seb holds his wooden sword in front of him in a defensive Cassiline form he’d learned from John. He is no older than Henri Rinefort, and far younger than he was when John first met him. Terror flares in John’s chest.

_Not this. Please._

Another heartbeat and the chaos renews. Too quickly, too easily, the Umaiyyati separate them. Steel thumps into wood. He sees Anatole’s face in the crowd now, too, and Lucien’s even farther away.

“John!” Cries for help surround him, all the voices of scared children, and he loses Seb in the confusion. He turns, searching for the boy, trying to get his bearings in the endless sea of battle. An enemy breaks from the crowd and lunges for him. The man’s shield catches the sun as he attacks and John is blinded. Fierce, angry pain explodes from his shoulder.

His falls to the sand and the world clamors around him. He tries and fails to stand, and can’t seem to catch his breath. He finally sees Seb, still too far away and caught in combat. In a moment he is both child and Captain, taking down one of his assailants easily and struggling against the next. John forces himself to his feet and takes two slow steps, pushing forward through blurred vision.

An Umaiyyati soldier slices deeply into Sebastian’s center. His scream of pain is joined by others, echoing loudly from every direction as wooden swords prove futile against real blades. Too late, John’s hands go for his daggers. He is too weak to unsheathe them and has no hope of throwing one. Blood, heat and the screams of dying children drown him and he collapses.

Across the din of battle, across the dune swept sands of Carthage, John hears his name in in a Cruithne lilt. 

_“Tell me, John. What could you have done?”_

 

His pain dulls and the world shifts. Captain Sebastian de Somerville is exactly where he’d been that day, swept twenty yards away by the flow of battle and fighting a growing tide of momentum against him. John is on his feet again, not yet defeated. The swarming enemies are overwhelming, but no longer infinite in their numbers. He grips his sword tightly and charges forward.

A flash of light, a fire in his chest, and a captain’s scream. John watches blood pour into the sand beneath him, not caring that it’s his.

 

_“You cannot save him. No one could have. His path ends here.”_

“Then I should have died with him!” He screams to the vast dunes, empty now except for Seb’s body.

A cool breeze blows across his skin, bringing with it the scent of lavender. His wound heals, a scar once more, and he can breathe. He hears footsteps and a moment later Niamh is kneeling before him. Her freckled skin and dark hair take on hues of the desert, but her black eyes burn deep and ethereal. She is somehow _brighter_ here, more vivid. More captivating. 

She looks at him sadly. “What good would that have done?”

John is calmer, but his voice cracks when he speaks. “I would be free of this hell.” He clears his throat and continues with a ragged voice. “I destroyed his parents, shattered one of the purest hearts I know, and condemned two innocent boys to die. Death can’t erase those sins, I know that. But surely facing judgement in Cassiel’s presence would have been more merciful than this?”     

Niamh studies him a moment. “Cassiel has forsaken you, on that you are right.” John swallows and clenches his jaw, fighting back tears. “Instead of dying with honor, you lived in disgrace, and that is his price. But he is one god of many, and a young one at that.”

She reaches out and places her hand on his chest, running her thumb along the curve of a scar. His skin hums with memories of Sherlock’s blades. “The boys are not your fault. They simply aren’t. You could not have possibly known or prevented it. Do not be so vain as to think that you could.” Her hand on his chest grows warm and heat flows through familiar swirls and lines across his skin, making them glow softly. “As for the rest, you must decide if the life you have found is worth the one you lost and forgive yourself. This purgatory is not Cassiel’s work, love. It is your own.” 

The desert around them begins to blur and slip away. John grows suddenly tired and finds it hard to focus on Niamh’s words. _“Beautiful child of Elua, one god may be done with you, but that does not mean they all are.”_    

The last thing he will remember when he wakes in the morning is Niamh’s marque as she turns to leave. The graceful gentian flowers climbing up her spine shimmer on her skin, and the bear print haloed between her shoulders feels ancient.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kushiel note: The brown bear is a symbol of one of the five folk of Alba, the Maghuin Dhonn. True seers in Alba are not uncommon from any of the folk, and the short explanation of the Maghuin Dhonn is that they are druids. An explanation I like better comes from Moirin at the beginning of Naamah's Kiss: "We are the folk of the Brown Bear and the oldest magic in Alba runs in our veins. Once, there were great magicians among us; men and women capable of seeing all the skeins of the future unwind in the great stone circles, capable of taking on the shape of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself." The bear's children are no longer so powerful, but her magic still plays a part in their lives.


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